


Never Trust A Skinny Baker

by dylanssourwolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Agent Stiles Stilinski, Alive Allison Argent, Alive Erica Reyes, Alive Vernon Boyd, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angry Derek Hale, Angry Sex, Baker Stiles Stilinski, Banshee Lydia Martin, Barebacking, Begging, Beta Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Bottom Derek Hale, Bottom Derek Hale/Top Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Dirty Talk, Dom Stiles Stilinski, Eternal Sterek, Eventual Romance, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, Folklore, Full Shift Werewolves, Gay Sex, Hellhound Jordan Parrish, Human Stiles Stilinski, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Model Derek Hale, Not Beta Read, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Body Play, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Sub Derek Hale, Supernatural Elements, Top Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Derek, Werewolf Liam Dunbar, Werewolf Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Wolf Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-09 18:37:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15273771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylanssourwolf/pseuds/dylanssourwolf
Summary: Stiles just wanted to come home and run his bakery with Scott, but of course normalcy isn't something he'll ever find in Beacon Hills. The FBI thrust him into an undercover investigation of what they think is a serial killer, and Stiles already knows it's something different. Worst of all, there's a model that keeps coming in for cupcakes between shoots. He's angry and beautiful and an alpha werewolf that happens to be Stiles's best customer. What could go wrong? Oh yeah, he's a main suspect in the fucking case. All Stiles has to do is not get murdered by whatever creature is out there, all the while trying desperately to not fall for ominous Derek Hale. Let's just hope he doesn't get compromised.





	1. It's Not Going to Catch Itself

 

    

 

“You do understand the risks of this operation, yes?” Agent Raphael McCall turns to look at the lanky intern. “This thing is dangerous, primal, and will not hesitate to kill again. We shouldn’t even be letting you do this.” He sits back down in his chair and takes a deep breath as he slides the case file across his large, oak desk. The boy picks it up and wastes no time in flipping through photos and autopsy reports as Agent McCall leans forward on his forearms to speak in a hushed tone. “You absolutely _cannot_ tell anyone while you’re investigating. Not Lydia, not the Argents, and definitely not my son. _Comprende?_ I know his nose is probably stuck into this mess already, but under no circumstance do you compromise yourself.”  
  
Agent McCall reaches forward and snatches the file back and goes through the important details, skimming over the police reports and the crime scene photos right to the last couple pages in the folder. “Everything in this packet is what you need to learn. It’s your alias. Your reasons for coming home, what you’ve been up to here at the FBI headquarters, how your internship is going, _everything_. You say _nothing_ that isn’t in this packet.”  
             
“What if the answers _aren’t_ in this packet? Do I call you o-or like, shoot a text?” He makes finger guns and receives a glare from the agent in response. “You know what? I’m great at improvising, I’m sure I can just, uh, make something up based on this—” he wiggles the pages midair, “— _incredibly_ thorough biography.”  
  
He rises from his seat in front of the desk and Agent McCall follows suit. “The only people you consult with are your father and the rest of the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department. They’ve already been briefed and await your arrival.” He reaches into his suit pocket and tosses a pair of keys at the boy. “We pulled some strings and got Scott to send your car up. It’s parked out front.”  
  
“Whoa, wait—”  
  
The agent stops from his departure and takes another deep breath as he turns around at the kid behind him. “What is it?”  
  
“Do I have a cool code name or anything?” He starts bobbing his head to music that isn’t playing. “I could be like, _Batman_ or something.”  
  
McCall opens the office door and shakes his head. “You’re going home. You don’t need one.” He motions for the kid to leave. “Your alias is just yourself, Stiles Stilinski.”  
  
Stiles’s face falls into pursed lips. “Whatever. I’m _going_.” He jingles his keys as he walks out of the office and into an array of cubicles. “Hey one more th—” He turns and the door closes. And locks. Twice.  
  
“Just go do your job, Stiles,” Agent McCall says through the door. “This creature isn’t going to catch itself.”

 

——

 

TWO WEEKS LATER

 

 _Chocanthropy_ is what they agree on. It took a _teeny_ bit of persuading, but once he had Scott convinced he’d be home for a couple months taking a break from his internship at the FBI, they rounded up their cash and bought an abandoned building repossessed by the county for a _whopping_ $750 so that they could fulfill Stiles’s dream of opening a bakery together. He’d always had a passion for baking; it was an activity he usually did with his mother but after she’d gotten sick, he just stopped doing it and it was as if that part of him was fading away with her. Stiles wasn’t about to let that happen. Baking was one of the best things his mother had ever taught him, one of the _only_ things rather. He’d made everything from cakes and cookies, to the most incredible chocolate soufflé anyone has _ever_ eaten, so the least he could do was take something he loved and start something for his mom.  
  
Scott hangs the neon sign on the building, the eerie, unconventional font spelling out _Chocanthropy_ in bright purple. The silhouette of a howling wolf curves around behind the lettering and lights up a pale white, contrasting against the blue of the subtext reading _Bake Shop._ It gives Stiles chills to know that this is theirs. _They_ paid for it.  


 

  
“We’re officially open for business.”  
  
Scott gives Stiles a high five as they head back into the shop. The wallpaper is lavender with white crown molding along the border. The dark wood flooring expands the length of the small shop and booths of black vinyl stretch along the right wall. There’s a record player in the corner and a couple dozen strands of string lights running underneath the edge of the dark wooden countertop. Behind the counter is the menu, prominently displayed on a chalkboard hanging from a large piece of gray driftwood bolted to the ceiling. Pastry toppings rest in jars on the shelves along the back wall underneath the menu, a centerpiece for the artwork of wolves and werewolves that hang on the walls, all vintage movie posters from _The Wolfman, Lycanthropus,_ and  _La Loba._     
  
“The result of our hard work. It’s more perfect than I’d ever imagined.” Scott watches Stiles beam as his amber eyes scan the shop.  
  
“Your mom would’ve loved this, you know. I’m sure she’s so proud of you.”  
  
Stiles smiles, pulling Scott in for a hug. “Couldn’t have done it without you, bro. Thanks.”

  
He spends the rest of his day in the kitchen, baking batches of cookies and cupcakes to sell the following day. He faintly hears Scott on the phone with the Beacon Hills Tribune trying to get an ad space for their shop. He lets the indie record on the player set into his bones while the pastry bag of rosy strawberry icing sets in his hand. _Around the edge, fill the middle, curl the top._ He’s got flour on his hands and smeared all over his face, the plaid apron around his waist decorated with streaks of food dye and icing. He’s got four dozen made and four dozen to go. It’s not like the daily flavors are going to bake themselves.  
  
Stiles puts the strawberry icing down and flips through the recipe book on the metal counter behind him. _Chocolate Guinness or Patty Cake?_ His mind wanders. He’s too consumed by the fact that the sink isn’t working properly and soaking himself to even hear the bell over the door ring.  
  
“Hey, Scott!” He sounds desperate because, well, the water pressure was a bit high when he took the sprayer head off and now he’s flooded the kitchen. “This stupid sink is broken!” He’s managed to shut the water off. Stiles angrily grips the sprayer nozzle in one hand and heads out of the kitchen to look for Scott when he notices a man staring at the movie posters hanging on the walls. He overestimates the length of the hose and is yanked right back into the kitchen.  
  
“Oh my God, please tell me you weren’t waiting long,” Stiles dashes out and panics, running his fingers through his dripping hair. “The sink broke and I have no experience in fixing those kinds of things and I have no idea where Scott went so I—”  
  
“Do you have any red velvet cupcakes?” The man doesn’t turn around.  
  
Stiles blinks. “Uh, yeah.” His hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck. Nervous habit. “I just made two dozen.”  
  
The guy looks like he’s come straight out of a movie. The dark jeans he’s got on lay perfectly over the curve of his hips and wrinkle around his black boots. He turns, and Stiles notices how his jacket hangs over his broad shoulders. The smooth, oiled leather draws the attention right to the gorgeous light green eyes currently glaring at Stiles from the opposite side of the counter. “I’ll take a dozen.”  
  
“Sure, okay. Give me a second to pack them up.” Stiles offers a small smile to the man who just continues to stew in a shroud of vexation. He disappears in the back room to find Scott jotting down information just before he hangs up the phone.  
  
"Stiles! So, we got an ad in tomorrow's paper!”  
  
“That’s great. Can you help me with…?” Stiles nods toward the door and guides Scott out in front of him. “He wants a dozen red velvet.”  
  
"On it,” Scott says, stopping at the register to let Stiles scurry behind him into the kitchen to box up twelve perfectly decorated cupcakes. He seals the edge of the purple box with a sticker that reads, _Never Trust a Skinny Baker_ and a logo printed underneath. He brings the box out and pushes it across the counter just as Scott closes the register.  
  
“This, is for you,” Stiles chimes, sticking a business card on top of the box. The man glances between Scott and Stiles before he grumbles something incoherent. "Enjoy your cupcakes,” Stiles beams with artificial charm. “Tell your friends about us.” Stiles gets an eyebrow lift in return before the man grabs the box and heads back out the door.  
  
“ _Someone_ woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Stiles mumbles something about being pleasant and lets Scott go back to the storage room to print out some flyers their friends agreed to hand out. "Something doesn’t set right with me," Scott says, turning briefly to look at his best friend before continuing to the back of the shop. “That guy gave me a weird vibe.”  
  
Stiles shrugs and brushes it off. “Hey, is Allison coming?”  
  
“Yeah,” Scott yells. “She’s supposed to bring Lydia and Isaac, too.” Stiles shuffles back into the kitchen to pick up the bag of strawberry icing again, trying to figure out why that pair of jade eyes looks so familiar.

 

Derek stews in his car parked in the lot outside the bakery. The box of cupcakes is still firmly in his grasp. He can still smell the strawberry icing smeared all over the kid in the bake shop. He can still hear a whisper of Bon Iver playing softly over the speakers inside the building.  
  
_"_ Someone  _woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”  
  
_ Derek groans and shoves the key into the ignition. His black Camaro roars to life and his eyes shift down to the box in his hands, contemplating his lack of urgency. He’s got a photo shoot across town in a half an hour but the last thing he wants to do is actually show up. He reluctantly backs out of the parking lot and floors it down the winding road through a canopy of trees.  
  
It’s not like he hates modeling. He just hates the food that the _Varúlfur_ caterers provide. Derek always gets so sick of eating carrot sticks and celery for the eight hours he’s hanging around on set. Chris Argent says the shoot should take about a month in order to get pictures to fill the annual Alpha issue of the mag, which means a month of eating like a fucking rabbit.  
  
The last time Derek’s been able to indulge in sweets was the party that burned his house down. It was the last time he’d had anything remotely enjoyable, most of his diet consisting of raw vegetables, high protein, and low carb. Peter insists; it’s to keep his physique. As if the miles he runs every morning and the weight training before bed doesn’t burn enough calories.  
  
“A werewolf has to have a normal diet,” Derek attempts to explain. “We do enough activity to work it off.”  
  
But Peter never listens. Derek would be genuinely surprised if Peter _wasn’t_ the one behind the shitty catering.  
  
He’d overheard Argent’s daughter on set the day before talking about a new bakery opening downtown and after doing a bit of close listening, Derek couldn’t resist. He hasn’t had a cupcake in _years_.  
  
The silky icing swirled on top of the cupcakes in Derek’s lap wafts up and wraps around his head, his stomach starts to growl louder than the wolf inside his chest. The vanilla cream cheese icing fills the car with a sugary scent and has Derek constantly glancing down and the unopened, purple box resting on his thighs. He swallows hard, willing his brain to concentrate on the road and not on the goodies in his lap.

 

 _I’ll just have one before we shoot.  
  
_ He brings the whole box into his dressing room and hides it in the empty bottom drawer of his vanity. Maybe if he puts it away he won’t be so tempted. Not even thirty seconds pass before Derek’s pulling a delicate creation from its cardboard confines and placing it on a napkin. He stares at the pastry. Everything’s perfect.  
  
“How long are you going to stand there before you ask for one?”  
  
Erica rolls her eyes and slips into the dressing room. “How long are you going to stare at it before you eat it?” Erica’s curled, blonde locks bounce over her shoulders as she takes a seat on the futon behind Derek.  
  
Frankly, he isn’t sure if he even wants to eat it. Sure, the Hale house fire was a rough scar now rather than an open wound, but forgetting about something for so long, putting it away in the back corner of his mind, was he really ready to let so much as a cupcake reopen that?  
  
“They were my mom’s favorite,” he whispers, knowing full well she can hear him loud and clear. “Red velvet.” He feels some warmth sinking into his cold heart. “They were sitting on the dining room table so that our family could eat them all. So, my mother wouldn’t eat them all herself later. I was coming home from school. Swim practice ran late.” He spins the small dessert as he delicately pulls the baking cup off of the base of the cupcake. “Everything was in ashes when I got there.”  
  
“Rough.” Erica slides over to Derek’s vanity. She peers into the drawer that’s slightly ajar and steals a cupcake from the box. “You know, you _really_ shouldn’t be eating these. We have a shoot today.”  
  
“Like I give a fuck,” comes his reply, tossing the baking cup in the trash and continuing to stare at the deep red crumbs littering the vanity’s bamboo tabletop. He glances at Erica, who’s licking the frosting off the top of her cupcake.  
  
“Oh my _God_ ,” she moans, the moment of bliss sweeping over her features and eliciting a small smile from Derek. “This is the best cupcake I’ve ever had in my life.”  
  
Derek still hasn’t touched his.  
  
Erica tousles Derek’s hair before she walks out the door. “Eat it before I do,” she mumbles in passing, through a mouthful of cake and frosting.  
  
And he does, taking a delicate bite from the side, the perfect balance of cake to icing.  
  
It brings back so many memories all at once. Derek can almost smell the charcoal of the ruined manor, the burning flesh. He can almost hear the shrieking coming from so close, yet so far, the crackling of the embers. He can see the vivid colors behind his closed eyelids, the green of the forest shines as the moon leaves a ghastly light cast amongst the trunks of the oaks while the amber glow of the flames rises up and licks at the stars. It makes him sad more than anything. All of the feelings, the hurt he’s buried suddenly rising to the surface of the sands. It makes his body ache. His chest hurts.  
  
  By the time he’s come back to reality, all that’s left in his hands is a small pile of scarlet crumbs and a dollop of icing. He sees the outfit he’s supposed to wear for the shoot laid out on the futon and he sighs at the sight of them. He dumps the crumbs in the trash and licks the icing off of his index finger.  
  
Derek sheds his leather jacket and hangs it by the collar on the bronze coat rack next to the door of his dressing room. Closing the door, Derek sighs at the leather pants in hopes that they’ll spontaneously combust if he stares hard enough. He reluctantly removes his own pants and struggles to replace them with the tight leather ones. Just as he gets the button closed, Erica walks back into his dressing room in a pair of jeans and a tee.  
  
“You’re not dressed yet?” Derek questions, growling deep in his throat as he tries to get the pants in a comfortable position.  
  
"I’m not shooting today. It’s just you.” Derek can _smell_ the stickiness of the apple she’s eating. The _crunch_ of the apple skin between her teeth makes him cringe. _Too loud,_ he thinks.  
  
“Fucking great.” He snatches the other leather jacket off of the futon and throws it over his bare shoulders.  “Don’t you have a boyfriend to harass?”

“He’s getting the crew lunch, so nope. Just you.”  
  
Derek grunts and pushes past her and out onto the set, where the crew is setting up their cameras. He crosses the set and sits hunched over on a tiny stool in front of a large vanity.  
  
“Derek.”  
  
“Lydia.”  
  
“Don’t fuss with me today.”  
  
Derek growls in response, glaring at her reflection in the large oval mirror in front of him. "Can’t promise anything.”

 

——

 

“Scott, are you almost done? I have a sink that needs fixing.”  
  
Stiles’s arm beats the heavy cream with a stainless-steel whisk. Whipped cream always tastes better when it’s whipped by hand. Approximately five hundred and thirty-eight times. And kept at a temperature of thirty-four degrees. For at most three days. His arm never tires anymore.  
  
“I know you can hear me. Get your little werewolf ass in here and fix this.”  
  
Scott walks through the swinging door a few moments later. He carries a notepad and the bakery phone. “How many times do I have to tell you, Stiles, I don’t know _how_ to fix it! Do I look like a plumber to you?” Despite his protests, Scott bends down to take a look at the pipes. The sink has been broken for two days now. Stiles did make a valiant attempt at fixing it earlier, which had resulted in him managing only to thoroughly soak his clothes. Scott stares at the nozzle while Stiles tosses an old dishrag over his right shoulder. His plaid apron is dripping wet and lines of flour are pressed into the fabric where he’s leaned against the countertop. Groaning, he unties the apron and stomps into the back room to toss it in the corner with the rest of his things.  
  
“Open not even three fucking days and already I have to deal with this bullshit.” Stiles sheds his hoodie and straightens the damp graphic tee underneath. He reluctantly replaces his plaid apron with the pink one on the hook, the one Lydia had custom made for her when she’d promised she’d work for them though she has yet to even show up. He ties the strings around his waist and sighs once more at the writing _“HOT SINGLE BAKER”_ in bold across his chest.  _It’s better than Scott’s_ , he thinks. He vaguely remembers Lydia handing Scott an orange apron with the phrase _“HALF BAKER, HALF WEREWOLF”_ printed smoothly on the front. He moves back out to the front of the store and sees Scott emerging from the kitchen with his shirt drenched just as a customer walks through the front door.  
  
“Hello,” Stiles grins halfheartedly. The man gives him a look. The pink apron matches Stiles’s pink cheeks.  
  
“A dozen red velvet,” The man mutters, pulling out his cell phone.  
  
Stiles feels like he should remember this since those beautiful green eyes have come in every single day they've been open. Scott shakes his head and walks around to the front of the counter just to sit at the bar. “Stiles, I can’t fix it. I honestly have no idea how, _and_ the plumber can’t get here for another two days.”  
  
“Damn it, Scott! What am I going to do? How am I supposed to bake?” Stiles tries not to pace but _fuck_ , he’s antsy. “You mind using your little werewolf powers to poof me up a new sink? You can do that right? You can manage just about everything else.”  
  
The man doesn’t interrupt, he just checks his watch while the pair argues. He can smell the anxiety radiating from the young baker as he begins to speak faster and faster.  
  
“Calm down,” urges Scott, grasping his best friend’s shoulders over the counter.  
  
Stiles stops and tries to breathe. “Scott, I have _things_ that need to be _baked_. We don’t have an endless supply of dishes and _I_ don’t have an endless supply of Adderall. And we have _customers_ now! What if we have to close? Scott, what am I gonna do? I—"  
  
"If I fix your sink will you give me my cupcakes so I can leave?”    
  
Both Scott and Stiles turn to the man who just briefly gazed up from his phone screen. “Like right now? Right this second?”  
  
“No. I have a photo shoot to be at in 20 minutes. I’ll be here around 4.”  
  
Stiles, ecstatic, resists the urge to hug this guy as he rushes into the kitchen to place a dozen red velvet cupcakes into a box. Should he give him two dozen? Stiles checks. He didn’t even make two dozen.  
  
Stiles slides the box across the counter as well as the money that’s been neatly laid there. “If you’ll fix the sink, the least I could do is give you free cupcakes for the rest of my self-employed life.”  
  
The man shrugs and doesn’t take his money back, just the cupcakes, and moves out the door.  
  
“I understand, Stiles. I figured out why he seems so... _different."_ Scott gives Stiles a worried look. "He’s an Alpha.”  
  
“And that concerns me because…?” Stiles can’t say he’s surprised, considering Scott warns him of every supernatural creature he detects ever since the whole ‘Beacon Hills becoming a beacon again’ incident.  
  
Scott stares, appalled. “Alpha, Stiles! This means he’s potentially dangerous.”  
  
“Excuse me,” Stiles slides the money off the counter and puts it in an envelope, writing “Sourwolf” on it in blue pen. “He’s still a paying customer.” Stiles tucks the envelope into the space underneath the money tray inside the cash register drawer. “We need money in order to buy things, Scott.”    
  
Stiles can feel Scott’s disapproval in his bones. It’s in the look he’s giving him, Scott’s dark brown eyes shining with worry. “I’m not going to get hurt, Scott.” Stiles knows Scott doesn’t believe him. Frankly, despite how confident he says it, how strong and steady the words come out, Stiles isn’t so sure he even believes himself. He turns toward the door and more customers walk into the store, watching the same black Camaro from the day before pull out of the store parking lot and speed down the road. “Come on, Scott,” he sighs, trying desperately to not think about the broken sink and the brooding patron fixing it out of the grumpiness of his heart. “We have customers.”

             


Later that afternoon, 3:45 rolls around and Stiles is embarrassed at how flustered he is. He’s furiously scrolling through his emails when a new report comes in from headquarters, the first in almost three weeks. It’s got a photo attached and the subject line reads _ADD TO CASE._ He’s in the storage room and keeps glancing toward the door to the kitchen to make sure Scott doesn’t barrel through and compromise him.   
  
The report is for “an unidentified pile of remains?” because the photo shows a literal pile of skin. And that’s it. Stiles grimaces and zooms into the image. _What’d this guy melt or something?_ The Sheriff’s department isn’t even sure if it’s a body or what, but the hair on whatever the fuck that ungodly thing is matches one found on a previous victim, which means that the blob of skin in the woods now becomes his repulsive issue.  _Disgusting_.  
  
“Stiles!”  
  
Scott’s voice forces Stiles to slam the laptop shut and tuck it underneath a stack of cookbooks. He throws the door open and flails through the kitchen only to grab a pile of dirty dishes and haul them into the room from whence he came. “I’m in here _cleaning_ like I asked _you_ to do like a half hour ago, Scott,” Stiles sighs, taking a deep breath and returning to the kitchen. Scott appears through the kitchen door and picks up a metal pick out of the now empty sink.  
  
“Where do you want this?”  
  
“Give me that,” Stiles snaps, grabbing the utensil and tossing it onto the counter behind him only for it to roll into a tub of food coloring. He grabs the rag on his right shoulder and starts aggressively cleaning the counter tops until they look pristine and shiny. The tinkling of the bell over the door stops him.  
  
“The model is here,” Scott announces, “keep it in your pants.”  
  
Stiles nearly falls tripping over the rubber floormat in the kitchen from trying to snap Scott with the rag in his hand. “Fuck _off_ , Scott.” He takes a second to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths because if Scott can smell how attracted he is to this guy, then so can the alpha himself. _You’re fine, Stiles, you’re fine._ He tosses the rag in his hand onto the counter and convinces himself to walk out to the storefront.  
  
“Thanks again for doing this. I really do appreciate it.” Stiles reaches a lanky hand over the counter to offer to the man. “I’m Stiles.”  
  
“Derek,” the man responds tersely, making no move to accept the peace offering. Derek’s leather jacket shines in the string lights, his jade eyes scanning Stiles and the driftwood menu behind him.  
  
“Well,” Stiles starts, awkwardly wiggling his fingers around before he retracts his hand and moves toward the end of the counter, “come on back.” He lifts the edge of the counter and it folds back on a hinge.  
  
Derek seems to contemplate it, to weigh his options, before he sheds his jacket and lays it gently over a barstool. He nudges past Stiles and lurks into the kitchen.  
  
“So, you used to be a plumber?” Stiles inquires. His eyes follow Derek as the man squats down and starts to inspect the inner workings of the pipes inside the cabinet underneath the sink. Derek briefly glances at Stiles with the same grumpy expression he had when he arrived. “I’ll take that as a no.”  
  
The kitchen smells overwhelmingly of sugar. Derek smelled it miles before his Camaro even got close to the bakery. He knows just by opening the cabinet that sugar is most likely a cause of this sink problem. Strawberry icing smells the freshest. Derek can practically taste the fruit itself. He can tell that there’s a whole bowl of icing sitting in the powder blue refrigerator across the room directly behind him. He knows that Stiles hand-made the bowl of whipped cream sitting next to it. It doesn’t have the same scent as the canned stuff. Less sugary. More organic. Derek also knows that Stiles is hiding a whole crapload of dirty bowls and whisks in the back room because he wants to look professional and clean. His nose tells him almost everything he needs to know. Scott’s a beta and talking on the phone in the back room with some girl. Stiles is taking Adderall, most likely for ADHD, and he's had a whole lot. Derek can smell it.  
  
Derek leans into the cabinet and searches for the small white knob that’ll let him temporarily shut off the water. He doesn’t find it. “Go turn off the water.”  
  
The baker is off trying to think about something other than the attractive plumber-turned-model fixing his sink. Maybe he’ll go out into the woods after they close upand check out that crime scene. He’s sure the Sheriff’s Department has _something_ by now, like maybe the rest of the body? But he’s never seen anything like that before, and if he hasn’t, of course the police haven’t. They’ve barely been educated in supernatural creatures, and the last thing Stiles wants is for them to run before they can even walk.  
  
Stiles’s honey brown eyes widen when he feels himself being glared at. Crap, he was probably mumbling to himself the _entire_ time. Crap, crap, crap. “C-Can I get you something, like a-a smoothie or whatever models drink?”  
  
“You can turn the water off,” Derek responds through gritted teeth. His face is stuck underneath the cabinet, poking around the cleaning supplies in order to get to the pipes.  
  
“Alright, alright. You don’t have to be a dick about it, Jesus.” Stiles doesn’t bother to whisper. Derek would hear it either way. “Maybe I should get you a Xanax and a glass of wine.”  
  
Stiles can hear the dripping of the pipe when he gets into the store room. Sacks of flour and sugar line the walls. The pipe hangs over the refrigerated cooler where all the eggs and the milk are kept at a perfect thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit. It holds fruits and heavy whipping cream and cream cheese. It’s old and a mint green color, not from age, but from how his mother painted it. It’s perfect. It works. Stiles could never get rid of it.  
  
But the pipe is dripping over it. It’s leaving a small circular mark on the smooth top of the cooler. Stiles grimaces and reaches above the cooler to twist the knob to turn off the water. The dripping stops briefly. Stiles uses his apron to wipe the water off of the top of the cooler and takes some of the paint off where the water had gotten under it. He sighs.  
  
Derek feels Stiles’s footsteps coming from the back of the store. He's grumbling about something that Derek really couldn’t care less about. A bag of tools is dropped to his right and the sound of the water dripping through the pipes has eased. Derek reaches for a wrench without thanking Stiles for anything. His fingers grip around a 9/16 and he pulls it out of the bag, clanging the other tools around. It latches on to the nut directly in front of his eyes.  
  
“So, how was your photo shoot today?”  
  
Without looking, Derek knew Stiles was sitting Indian-style on the kitchen island right behind him but the question still makes him jump nonetheless. His head _thuds_ on the stainless-steel pit of the sink inside the cabinet. A growl tugs at the back of his throat.  
  
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry, are you okay?” Stiles jumps off the counter to check on Derek.  
  
Derek’s back burns where Stiles’s hand rests just above the waistband of his black jeans. Derek can tell himself he isn’t at all attracted to skinny, defenseless, twenty-something-year-old Stiles, but his wolf can disagree more aggressively than Derek can deny. He’s sweating. It’s dripping off of the end of his nose. It’s soaking into his shirt, his pants. He can feel the wife beater he’s wearing underneath his black Henley slowly dampening and Stiles has yet to _move his fucking hand_. Derek shifts a bit and roughly wiggles out from under the cabinet.  
  
“Fine.” Stiles’s hand moves when Derek sits back on his haunches, unbuttoning his shirt quickly and tossing it next to the bag of tools. He cards through his hair, his forehead damp with bullets of sweat. “Hand me the rubber grip.”  
  
“ _Please,”_ the teen sarcastically replies, handing Derek the small rubber circle. “Wow, thanks Stiles for finding that pesky rubber gripper for me. You’re a real help!”  
  
Derek growls low in his throat, this time being unable to prevent the sound from erupting, before he settles back into the cabinet in an attempt to loosen up the rusty pipes. Stiles deliberately fails to watch what Derek is doing because if he needs his sink fixed again, he'd rather call Derek. His eyes land on the wolf's perfect ass, clad in black jeans that seem to hug Derek's hips in all the right places. _Oh yeah,_ Stiles thinks, _definitely calling Derek_.  
  
"Why do you need a rubber grip?" Stiles inquires. Even rusty pipes shouldn't be too much for an Alpha.  
  
"To unscrew the pipes," Derek grits out.  
  
It seems to give Stiles a revelation. "But you have Alpha wolf super strength."  
  
The trap comes loose and clangs under the cabinet as it falls and collides with the cans of cleaner and Derek's forehead. "Do you ever shut up?"  
  
"Nope." Stiles grins. "I've had a lot of Adderall."  
  
Derek gropes around for a pipe wrench and a bucket, checking the see if anything is wrong with the trap. He sets the curved piece of pipe aside and uses the wrench to unscrew the horizontal pipe from the one in the wall.  
  
“Need anything?” Stiles shifts uncomfortably.  
  
"The cable auger.”  
  
Stiles pauses. _What the fuck is a cable auger? Do I even have one?_ Stiles glances at the bag next to Derek and sees nothing remotely similar to what he’s looking for.  
  
“You have no idea what a cable auger _is,_ do you?” Derek’s voice sounds loud from underneath the sink. “It’s the crank with blue handles.” Stiles doesn’t need a fucking translator to hear how condescending Derek’s being. He reluctantly digs through the bag of tools once more until he finds the crank buried at the bottom with the wire tangled around the rest of the tools. Derek smells Stiles’s embarrassment turn to irritability and frustration. Sighing, Derek emerges from the cabinet and sits back on his heels to see Stiles struggling to untangle the Allen wrenches and the various screwdrivers from the coiled, metal cable. Stiles’s hands shake as he attempts to ease the Allen wrenches from between the coils. He manages to free one, but he’s huffing now, ready to scream in frustration.  
  
“Here,” Stiles calmly sets the auger in front of Derek and stands, moving toward the storefront. “I’m going to grab you some water.” _Before I fucking strangle myself with the damn auger,_ Stiles thinks. He offers a stiff smile and rushes out of the kitchen to the back room.  
  
Derek tries not to listen in because he knows Scott would sense him listening. Derek knows because he felt it when he was a Beta. When you’re an Alpha, you rely on strength, knowledge, strategy. If you use yourself wisely, you protect the pack. When you’re a Beta, all you do is listen. You listen to learn. You listen to strategy. You learn to detect that breach, you _feel_ it in your body, you _know_ when not just you are listening anymore. You feel them before you see them, before you smell them, before you taste them.  
  
It hardens a Beta. The power that comes from slashing the throat of a rival wolf almost consumes the murderer in a kind of war-like way. They’re never the same after the first kill. Some take it well whereas others shut down. Derek was different. His first kill was an innocent one. Paige was her name. _She_ was the reason his Beta eyes had faded from a crisp, warm golden yellow to a cold, steel cobalt blue. Derek felt her pain, excruciating as it was. He took it as he could. Derek loved Paige, and still, her death was hard for him to think about.  
  
Derek still kept a picture of her in his wallet right behind the family portrait the Hales had taken back in 18-something. Derek doesn’t remember. He’s not even in it, not even born yet. His mother’s dead center, eyes glowing a blood crimson. They’re all in Victorian clothes. It’s slightly unnerving every time the picture kind of slips out of his wallet. The grim faces of every single person in the picture seem to gaze right through him and it makes Derek start to wonder why he’s kept _that specific picture_ with him at all times.  
  
The picture nestled in front of the family portrait is his favorite. It’s a photo he’s glared at so many times, it’s been permanently seared into his brain. It’s of him and his sisters. Laura and Cora and Derek all playing together around a large tree stump in the woods around their Manor. Laura looks about ten in the picture, which would mean Derek’s nine and Cora’s four. Derek’s covered in dirt and Cora’s covered in dirt and Laura’s ruffling Derek’s hair with a muddy hand. They’re all smiles. He can’t remember the last time he’s smiled.  
  
Derek works the last Allen wrench out of the auger and pushes the pile of tools to the side in order to maximize his workspace. He moves the tin bucket underneath the stub pipe and guides the end of the auger into the pipe until he feels resistance. Giving the handle a good crank or two with his nifty werewolf strength, the auger slides smoothly out of the pipe with a wad of plastic pastry bags tangled on the end of it. Derek shakes his head and scrapes it into the bucket before he starts to replace the pipes he’s dismantled.  
  
Stiles hits his knee pretty hard on an open cabinet on his way back to the kitchen, muttering obscenities. He sets a bottle of water on the shiny counter next to the sink. “How’s it coming?”  
  
Derek grunts, using a pipe wrench to re-secure the trap. Derek pulls the bucket out from under the sink as he emerges, wife beater sticking to his back. The wolf in his chest almost growls as he turns and catches Stiles’s wide brown eyes dead set on the exposed lower half of his back.  
  
“This—” Derek pulls the wad of pastry bags out of the bucket, “was your problem.” His light eyes narrow on Stiles. He can feel Stiles stilling his body; his feet stop bouncing from where they’re dangling off the counter. “Don’t do it again.”  
  
_T_ _hat’s embarrassing._ Stiles can feel his own gaze unconsciously follow Derek to the trashcan and back. He’s focused on the way Derek’s shoulders flex. Even the slightest movement, an intake of breath, and he just _ripples_.  
  
The tool bag clanging brings Stiles back.  
  
“Where do you want these?” Derek asks with a pointed glare and a scowl.  
  
“Just set them on the counter. I’ll put them back.”  
  
Derek does as he’s asked and drops the bag onto the stainless-steel counter, a deafening _clang_ making Stiles cringe.  
  
Stiles hops down and follows Derek when he picks up his shirt and heads back out to the storefront to grab his jacket and leave.  
  
“Thanks. For fixing it.” Stiles’s soft voice makes Derek stop. He slightly turns, still scowling, and nods, slipping his chiseled shoulders into the sleeves of the smooth leather jacket in his hands.  
  
Stiles scrambles for words, trips and fumbles over them. He’s trying to say them all at once. The whole sentence wants to tumble out of his mouth and wrap itself around Derek to make him stay a bit longer. All that comes out is, “Wait.”  
  
Stiles half jogs into the kitchen and grabs a small cardboard cube from the refrigerator. He places it in Derek’s hands and nods, meeting the impatient eyes. “Just...thanks.”  
  
And Derek’s gone.

 

_——_

Derek is holding the small cardboard cube when he goes into work for the shoot the next day.  
  
“Aww, you brought me a cupcake. Der, you shouldn’t have.” Erica flips her blond curls over her shoulder when she catches Derek walking onto set as she exits the hair trailer in the parking lot.  
  
“I didn’t,” is Derek’s response. The shades on his eyes block the impending sunrise.  
  
“You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.” Erica jogs in her heels to catch up with Derek’s long strides. “You haven’t given me  
enough time to eat the cupcake you brought me.”  
  
“I woke up late.” Derek knows she can smell how he just rolled out of bed and came to work. He knows she’s going to comment on the fact that he didn’t change out of his pajamas.  
  
Erica holds the door open for Derek. He gives her an incredulous look. “Don’t patronize me, Erica.”  
  
“Oh, Der.” She follows him across set and into his dressing room. Derek doesn’t move. “You smell like teen spirit.”  
  
“Shut up.” Derek sets the box down on his vanity and growls at Erica. “Don’t touch it.”  
  
Erica rolls her eyes and crashes on Derek’s futon. She tosses the white V-neck at him to avoid laying on it. “He’s a baby.”  
  
“ _You’re_ a baby. And I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Derek sheds his black wife beater and replaces it with a v-neck. He exchanges his gray sweat pants for a pair of black jeans laid out neatly across the back of the futon. “Besides, you’re dating someone _my_ age.”  
  
“Try again, buddy. Boyd’s a year older than me. You’re like what, 29?” She eyes the box on the vanity. “Why’d you only get one today? I was expecting my usual daily cupcake.”  
  
Derek sits at the vanity and runs his fingers through his hair to get it to look less tousled. “I didn’t buy it.”  
  
“What, they give prizes for most dedicated customer or something?”  
  
“He wouldn’t stop whining, so I fixed his fucking sink and he gave me this, okay? Anything else, your Highness?” Derek’s face curls into its usual scowl, the tired, expressionless eyes staring back at him in the mirror.  
  
Erica rolls off of the futon and sits on the stool next to Derek and grins. “This guy that’s got your panties in a twist is this _baker_?”  
  
“I need to shoot,” Derek responds, checking the time. “It’s almost seven.”  
  
Erica follows Derek out of the dressing room with her eyes and shakes her head. “He never accepts it.”

 

 

Derek sighs. He’s curled over Erica, fangs brushing at the nape of her neck. She’s sprawled on the floor. Her right leg is bent up, her body resting on her elbows, head thrown back.  
  
“Hold it right there,” Chris calls. The set guys adjust the lighting and Chris snaps about a hundred pictures in point three seconds.  
  
“Could you stop breathing on me?” Erica’s brown eyes shift from Chris to Derek as he’s looming over her. She fidgets. Chris makes a distressed noise and Erica stops moving.  
  
"I’m doing my job,” Derek whispers. “So, build a bridge, and get over it.”  
  
“At least get your claws off of me.”  
  
Derek growls low. Erica barely hears it, but she _feels_ it. Derek moves his hand from where it’s placed on her knee.  
  
Chris makes another noise. “Stop moving, both of you.”  
  
Derek glares at Argent with crimson eyes and snarls.  
  
"I’m not afraid of you, Derek.”  
  
“You should be,” he mumbles.  
  
Erica looks out at Chris. “Can we change poses, please? My elbows are numb.”  
  
Argent swirls his finger and Derek moves away from Erica. She stands and adjusts her skirt, moving over to where Lydia’s touching up Derek’s make-up with a wedge sponge. “Do we change wardrobe for this one?”  
  
“No, not you. Just Derek.”  
  
Derek rolls his eyes. “As long as it’s not another mesh tank top.”  
  
“Close,” Lydia snickers. She flips her strawberry blonde curls over her shoulder and purses cherry red lips. “Lose the shirt, Hale.”  
  
Erica laughs. Derek glares at her as she runs her fingers along the hem of his shirt. “C’mon, Der.” She lifts it from the bottom and Derek obliges, not breaking his scowl. He raises his arms and she tugs the V-neck off of his torso. “We have photos to shoot.”  
  
Lydia eyes Erica, moving toward her with a tube of lipstick. “Here.” She fixes the smudges and fills in the fading spots before nudging both wolves toward the backdrop.  
  
"Derek, I want you to hold her close to your body. Make it look sensual. Don’t be so stiff. Erica—” Chris waves his hand before picking up his camera, “I don’t have to tell you. Just do what you need to do to get him to cooperate.”  
  
She nods and wraps Derek’s arms around her waist. “Hold me like your little baker.”  
  
Derek knows she does it to rile him up. Derek _knows_ it really shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. So, he tries to ignore it.  
  
Her fingers grip his shoulders as Argent takes photos and the rest of the crew re-adjusts the lighting. “I’m sure your boy toy would _love_ to get his hands on you.” She smirks at Derek’s glowing crimson eyes. “Don’t be so shy, Der. Just because you bat for the other team doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate the other players.” Her hands move from his shoulders to the waistband of his jeans, using the belt loops to pull his hips closer to her body. “Loosen up. Baker boy won’t like it if you aren’t _flexible._ ”  
  
He’s got some restraint, but Derek admits to himself that he’s a little hot-headed. He’s glaring down at her through a furrowed brow, his menacing gaze penetrating her stance as poignant as a laser beam. Her eyes flash a bright gold before they drop and fail to meet his eyes completely. Her teasing always infuriates him, but this time, it seems to get him thinking more than anything. Derek starts to wonder how Stiles would look if he were in Erica’s position. _Flustered_ , he decides, _maybe nervous. Definitely sarcastic._ Derek can picture Stiles’s rosy cheeks and his large honey-brown eyes. It makes his heart flutter.  
  
“Your little cupcake on your mind? Don’t think I didn’t catch that.”  
  
“Shut up already.”  
  
“Feisty. I bet he likes that about you.” She smiles and rubs her fingers up Derek’s abdomen, the hard ridge of the muscle leaving a hot trail up Derek’s chest. “I bet he likes all that leather you wear.”  She grins toward Argent’s camera and twists her eyes back at Derek. Bet you just wanna shove him down and—”  
  
The roar he’s been holding back finally tears harshly from his throat. His canines are inches from her face and his claws are unintentionally shredding the back of the blue shirt she’s wearing. Derek’s wolf rips the inside of his chest. It _burns,_ like a searing knife. It tingles like the itch he can’t ever seem to scratch and for an instant, the feeling’s gone, the image he’s thought up of Stiles’s small smile handing him that little cardboard box bouncing in his head for a moment.  
  
But then Erica’s growling back. Her golden eyes pierce his own blood red irises. She’s ripping down the front of his body, sharp and fast, blood trickling down his chest to the black cloth on the floor. “You don’t scare me, Derek.”  
  
Chris is shouting something about artistic vision from off set and continues to encourage the tension. The rest of the crew is gathering to watch, and Derek moves away from Erica to roar again, his skin slowly working itself back together. “Don’t talk about him that way. He’s not a piece of meat.” Derek’s already planning a way to prevent them both from getting seriously injured, but then again, it’s not like there’s anyone shooting them with wolfsbane bullets, right? It’s just a cat fight. He knows in the back of his mind that Erica isn’t going to let up and he’s not sure how much of his primal nature he’s going to be able to hold back.  
  
Erica doesn’t mind. She’s got a huge, shit-eating grin on her face. “Oh, but isn’t he? He’s jail-bait, Der. Barely even 21.” She’s snarling at him in a second, a running start giving her enough leverage to aim herself straight at Derek’s chest. She leaps on his firm body,her legs anchoring behind his hips, kissing him hard. Her hands go straight for the rough stubble along his jawline and she can briefly feel Derek reciprocate before one strong hand forcefully shoves her onto the ground. Her lipstick is smeared all over his lips and he’s baring his fangs in order to assert his dominance. “That’s the last time you do that.” With another growl, he stalks off set, fiercely rubbing at his face with the back of his hand.

 

Derek's done on set, having shot three more styles after Erica left. It's around six in the evening. Lydia's gone for the day and Derek's too lazy to wash the makeup off of his face. It doesn't look half bad, especially with the slim dress pants and the leather bomber they shot him in. Derek stares at himself in the mirror. He can't deny that he looks damn good. Hell, it makes him _feel_ good. His hair isn't groomed, rather more tousled than anything. He's got smudged eyeliner framing his light eyes, contrasting with his tanned complexion. He gives a small smile to his reflection.  
  
He moves to slide off the jacket but then decides against it. _Fuck it,_ Derek thinks, _I just want to go home._ He doesn't bother to put on a shirt and shoves the rest of his clothes in his duffel. Derek flicks the switch to the vanity lights off and tosses the small, empty cupcake box into the trash. He ended up giving Erica half the cupcake anyway, even after he told her five hundred times that _no,_ the chocolate cupcake was  _not_ given to her. It was  _his.  
  
_ Derek nods to the crew as he leaves the building, Chris's daughter, Allison, bringing all the wigs from Erica's shoot from the set to her hair trailer. She's talking to one of the lighting guys. _Isaac_ , Derek thinks his name is. Derek's spoken to him a few times and knows he's a beta wolf too _,_ orphaned a few years back when his father got into a nasty car wreck.  
  
Allison and Isaac wave as Derek passes the trailer. He waves back, a scowl still etched into his features. He unlocks his Camaro and tosses his duffel onto the passenger seat. He climbs into the car, starts it, and rolls down the windows, turning on the radio as he pulls off of the lot.  
  
It takes him about twenty minutes to get back to Beacon Hills and he tries _so_ hard to just pass the bakery. If Erica makes fun of him tomorrow, he can post the blame on his inner wolf yearning for a red velvet cupcake. He almost doesn't turn into the parking lot. He can smell Stiles frosting a batch of red velvet cupcakes and it makes his mouth water just thinking about it.  
  
He doesn't give it a second thought before he turns the car off and stalks inside the bakery.

"Welcome to—hey, Derek!" Stiles's head peeks out from the swinging kitchen doors and Derek just stares at him. Stiles's eyes are wide as they take in Derek's apparel.  
  
_Wow,_ Stiles thinks to himself. His gaze trails down Derek’s chest to where the zipper on the jacket is stopped halfway up for some modesty. He frowns slightly and blinks to meet Derek’s stare. His eyes, God _, his eyes_. It's as if Derek's walked straight out of one of Stiles's dreams. Don't even get him started on those pants.  
  
Stiles swallows thickly. "W-What can I get for you? A dozen Red Velvet?"  
  
Derek raises an eyebrow and Stiles just slips back into the kitchen.  
  
"It might be a minute," he yells from the sink. "I'm in the middle of frosting a batch."  
  
"No rush," Derek drawls, "I'll wait."  
  
_He'll wait. Okay, Stiles, pull yourself together._ Stiles's fingers tremble as he holds the piping bag. He's already sweating. It's always been hot in the kitchen, but never _this_ hot. He takes a deep breath and attempts to resume frosting the cupcakes with as much skill as he’d begun with, as if his hands aren’t shaking and as if an impatient, hot-headed model isn’t pacing in front of the counter. By the time he finishes, half the batch looks flawless and the other half looks like they hired a preschooler to help. _Calm yourself,_ he says. Stiles takes another deep breath and packs up the cupcakes. He hesitates before walking back out to the storefront.  
  
He's surprised Derek isn't hovering by the counter, but rather gazing at the posters on the wall. _Oh my god,_ Stiles sets the box down carefully, trying hard not to stare at Derek's ass. _Those pants._ Stiles gains a newfound appreciation for leather when Derek crosses his arms and the back of the jacket stretches and molds over Derek's perfectly silhouetted back muscles. "I–I, uh, Derek..."  
  
The model turns, and Stiles gets a better look at his jade eyes smudged with black liner. His hair is spiked up and his face is freshly shaven to reveal Derek’s beautifully flawless complexion. Stiles feels how wide his eyes are opened, and he can’t bring himself to blink in fear of missing how sultry Derek’s smooth movements look as he makes his way up to the counter. Derek’s still got a deep scowl on his face when he pushes the ten dollars across the countertop and stares up at the baker.  
  
Stiles swallows thickly and shakes his head. “No need to pay me. You fixed the sink. I already told you, free cupcakes.”  
  
Derek leans on the counter and stares straight into Stiles’s amber eyes. Derek can hear his heartbeat, a steady thump _thump_ thump _thump_ slightly quickening with every passing second. He sees the way Stiles is nervously wringing his hands, attempting to avoid Derek’s gaze at all costs, yet failing miserably by looking at the rest of Derek’s incredibly chiseled body. Derek does have a bit of modesty, though. He was kind enough to remember to zip his jacket, so Stiles doesn’t end up having a hernia from Derek’s near public indecency.  
  
“I’m paying you for the cupcakes.”  
  
“T-They’re just cupcakes, and it’s the least I could do.”  
  
“Stiles, just take it.” Derek is forcibly placing the bill in Stiles’s hand, crumpling it in the process.  
  
Stiles shakes his head again. “Derek, I can’t—”  
  
“Take the damn money before I rip your throat out.” Stiles stops arguing and gives Derek a skeptical look. Derek’s eyes flicker from jade to a dark crimson. “With my teeth.”  
  
Stiles grips the money in his hand and watches Derek snatch the purple box off of the counter. "You don't scare me, Derek!" Stiles shouts after him. He catches Derek’s smoldering eyes before the alpha raises his eyebrows and walks out the door into the cool dusk.  
  
Stiles sighs to himself. _Jesus, he's fucking scary. But so hot. But fucking terrifying._  He’s slightly regretting letting Scott leave early to go grab dinner for his mom while she picks up another late shift at the hospital. Stiles can’t seem to get Derek’s piercing eyes out of his mind and he wonders to himself as he takes the small envelope labeled “Sourwolf” out from under the tray in the cash register, why is that guy so angry all the time? He puts the ten dollars in the envelope before he replaces it and moves to the front door to flip the hanging sign from “Open” to “Closed”. Stiles knows he has a whole shitload of stuff to get done before he can even think about leaving, but he still can’t shake the thoughts of the model from his head.  
  
Stiles finishes putting the last of the dishes away when the phone rings. It’s a Beacon Hills area code, which means it’s either one of his friends or an order. “Chocanthropy, this is Stiles. How may I help you?”  
  
“Hey, Stiles. I need your help.” It’s Allison’s patient voice.  
  
“Allison! What’s up?”  
  
“So, you know how my dad is a photographer?” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “We need you to cater a shoot.”  
  
“Cater? You know I only do baked goods, right?” _Cater? Cater with cake and cookies?  
  
_ "I know. There’s a special request though. Peter is obsessed with making the crew eat healthy, but I figured you could you a good business boost. So, I was hoping—”  
  
“You know, usually you _try_ the cupcakes before you have them catered, right?”  
  
Allison sighs. “I _told_ you, I’ll come by the shop soon. I promise. Now, where was I?”  
  
“You need the cupcakes to be grass-fed, no preservative, horse food.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. “I literally described a _muffin_. When do you need them by?”  
  
Allison shuffles around on the other end of the line and searches for the schedule. Stiles paces the kitchen because _healthy_ cupcakes?  He tugs his old cookbook from its place underneath the register and thumbs through it. There has to be _something_ in there, right?  
  
"Uhhh, it looks like out next big shoot is three days from now and I’m pretty sure there’s nothing booked yet, food wise.” Her voice gets softer as she turns away from the phone. “My dad’s calling me. I’ll find out when we need you and update you later.”  
  
"Wait, Allis—” The line goes dead. _Shit._ Stiles hangs the phone back on the wall and squats in front of the counter, his head resting on folded arms. “What am I going to do?” He throws his body backward against the wall and falls to a seat on the floor. His arms unfold and knock the cookbook off the counter onto the checkered tile. He glances down to the page that’s fluttered out of the book and landed next to his right hip. He sighs and picks the phone back up.  
  
“Hey, Liam, it’s Stiles. So, Scott says you can make bread?”

 

——  


The next morning, Stiles barricades himself in the bakery before they’re set to open. It’s a Friday morning, which is usually one of the slower days anyways, so he’s made sure to have time to himself before Scott arrives to sit around and do nothing for yet another workday. Stiles is seated on a barstool at the front counter with his MacBook and the case file open to his right. His laptop chimes and a new email pops open from his dad with an update for the suspect list, complete with an attachment.

 

 

_Stiles,_

_An update for the case file is attached. There was blood at the scene matching two of the other victims plus someone in our system. We believe he may be involved, but more updates to follow. Stop by the station after work and we can discuss the updates, but for now, I’ve attached what we have on the guy in our system. We aren’t sure at this point if he’s involved in the murders or if he’s a potential victim, so be careful._

_Sheriff Noah Stilinski  
_ _Beacon County Sheriff Station  
_ _2926 Boundview Court  
_ _Beacon Hills, CA 95921_

 

Stiles yawns and blinks a few times before glancing towards the storefront windows. He mindlessly clicks the attachment in the email and watches it download and pop open with a fat fucking stack in the PDF and the mugshot on the first page is obviously the most gorgeous one he’s ever seen. _“Derek?”_ Stiles whispers to himself, his heart sinking right into to his red Adidas. His eyes scan back and forth rapidly as he takes in as much information on Derek that he can. _“Born in November 1988, 8 family members killed in an arson fire in 2004, arrested in 2010 in conjunction with the murder of Laura Hale, under suspicion for mass murder… Jesus, no wonder you’re angry all the time.”_ Stiles stares at the mugshot of Derek and notices his eyes are closed. He frowns and scrolls to the next photo, another mugshot with two bright blue lens flares overexposing the image and washing out Derek’s face. He’s leaning in so closely to the screen that when there’s a knock at the front door, the barstool tips right over and Stiles goes into a panic as he hits the tiled floor.  
       
“Ju-Just a second, I’m coming!” He launches himself upward and flails his way back to his case, thrusting the case file closed and slamming it in the laptop. He shoves the MacBook into his backpack and takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm his racing heart before he slings the bag over his right shoulder and heads for the front door. He turns the knob and swings the heavy wooden door towards him to reveal Scott’s adorably crooked jaw and a short teen with bright blue eyes and an incredulous look on his face.  
  
“I found Liam,” Scott declared, “and I think he’s willing to help us.”  
  
Liam pushes past Stiles to walk into the shop. “Look, I _told_ you, I worked at Panera for a month. I’ll do my best.” Stiles’s eyes shift from Liam to Scott. He shrugs, and Stiles looks back at Liam.  
  
“If you can follow a recipe, you’re hired.”  
  
Stiles moves aside to let Scott into the bakery and flips the _CLOSED_ sign on the door to _OPEN._ He follows Scott and Liam to where they’ve flipped the counter up and walked into the back of the store, and he turns, carefully stashing the backpack he’s been holding in the cabinet underneath the cash register. A loud _crash_ comes from the storage room and Stiles immediately runs to its source.  
  
“Stiles?” It’s Scott’s voice. “We have more flour, right?”  
  
Stiles rounds the corner to find Scott, on the floor, right on top of a busted sack of flour. “I was trying to grab the extra aprons and I sort of fell.” He’s coated in a cakey dust and every time he coughs, a little more agitates free from his hair and floats around in the airspace. Stiles climbs on top of the cooler to grab the box of Lydia’s custom aprons, and he tosses it down to Liam, who catches it with ease.  
  
“I have another sack of flour in my car that I just bought yesterday,” Stiles answers, flicking his car keys at the boy on the floor, “and now you can go get it.” Scott nods and reaches a hand up to Stiles, who grips it and yanks him off of the floor. “Shake yourself off before you crawl into my car. I don’t need my dad assuming I do cocaine or some shit.” As Scott leaves out the back door to avoid tracking flour through the bakery, Liam groans at the aprons he gets to choose from in the box.  
  
“Are there any plain ones?” He pulls a green apron out and holds it up. “Welcome to Bakin’ Hills? Is she serious?” He throws it aside and goes for a navy blue one. “My Temper is Hotter Than my Buns,” Liam grimaces, “Stiles, there’s literally fire emojis on this one.”  
  
“Lydia made them all, I had no say,” Stiles explains, tying his own _HOT SINGLE BAKER_ apron around his waist, “and she’s going to be offended if we don’t wear them.” He grabs Scott’s apron off the hook on the kitchen and lobs it to Liam. “Wear Scott’s. He doesn’t ever do anything that he needs it.”  
  
Liam unfolds the orange apron. “I’m maybe 1% baker and 99% werewolf. Definitely not 50/50.” He puts the apron over his head and catches the recipe book that Stiles also threw at him before he can fasten it around his waist.  
  
“Pick something and grab the ingredients.” The bell tinkles above the door, and Stiles moves out of the kitchen. “I’ll take care of the customers.”

——

 

Derek knows he should go back home. His shoot ended earlier than usual, so he drove to the loft for a workout. Yoga turned into weights, which turned into a jog and now he’s managed to smell his way through the woods right to the front doors of the bakery. _No wonder Peter makes you eat healthy. Control yourself._ Derek’s trying to convince himself that he’s definitely there for the cupcakes and not the lanky kid that makes them.  
  
He checks his watch. What was _supposed to be_ a two-hour workout ended up as a workout, plus another two hours of running, and now it’s just past 10 pm and Chocanthropy is closed. Stiles is _most definitely_ in there though. Derek can hear him mumbling to himself and scratching down something on a notepad in the back room, most likely taking inventory. _Go home, Derek. You were already here once today._ A low growl resounds through his chest and a deep breath suppresses it. A bead of sweat slides down the center of his back. _Fuck it._ Derek turns back to the store front and nearly knocks Stiles right back into the doors he’s just walked out of.  
  
“What the—Derek!” Stiles snaps, and his keys fall right between his fingers. “Jesus Christ, can I help you with something?” He’s clearly both startled and irritated, _probably_ because he doesn’t like being startled.  
  
Derek takes a step backward and reaches down for the keys. There’s a little worn sheriff’s badge on the keyring. “No.” He sets them in Stiles’s hand and turns to leave.  
  
“Well, you must be here for _some_ reason unbeknownst to me, without a car, in the middle of the nigh—honestly, it seems at this point that you’re trying to get yourself killed beca—”  
  
Derek feels a rumble in his chest again and abruptly interrupts. “I was out on a run and stopped to rest.” He looks to his left and sees Stiles’s plaid shirt flit in the breeze out of the corner of his eye. “That’s all. I’m heading home now.”  
  
Stiles watches Derek reach for a headphone dangling out of his pocket, his tanned skin glistening in the harsh glow of the neon sign above them. “I’m on my way out. I’ll give you a lift.” Derek stops. “It’s dark out and its nothing but woods from here to _literally_ anywhere. Like, I get that you’re ‘Mr. Big Bad Wolf’ but do you know exactly how dangerous it is ou—”  
  
“I can take care of myself, Stiles.” His wolf claws at the inside of his chest and he stifles it.  
  
Stiles walks to the passenger’s side of the Jeep and unlocks it. “Derek, get in the fucking car.” A breeze wafts Stiles’s sugary scent past Derek’s nose. “I’m not going to say it again.”  
  
He grits his teeth and reluctantly climbs into the car. Stiles crawls up into the driver’s seat and turns the key into the ignition. “C’mon, baby, you can do it.” The engine sputters for a bit before he stops and tries again. “Roscoe’s always been stubborn. I think it’s because he’s old.” The Jeep roars to life and Stiles lets out a cheer. “Yeah! It took one less try than this morning!”  
  
Derek reaches forward and starts dicking around with the cassette player slot. _Seriously? A mixtape?_ Stiles taps the gas gauge on the dash with his finger a few times before he pulls out of the parking lot. “I’ll get gas tomorrow.” _Flick. Flick._ “I’m 97% sure I have just under a half a tank.” The tan dash is spotless, and the steel plating is free of any fingerprints or smudges. The car feels like a rattling bucket of bolts on a set of all terrain tires. The hard-top cover has some strips of duct tape covering claw marks that scratch along the roof, and there’s a ton of shit in the backseat that’s jostled around whenever Stiles hits the slightest bump in the asphalt. A first-aid kit is nestled on the floor behind the driver’s seat near a stack of unfolded cupcake boxes. Some frosting tips rolling around on top of them are what’s in Derek’s line of sight, right next to…a half a box of Trojans.  
  
A hot rush spreads through Derek’s chest and he can feel his eyes flicker red for a hot second. A hand grabs his left knee and his arm instinctively comes down to grip the wrist.  
  
“Christ, Derek, you wanna let go?” Stiles wrings his wrist out of Derek’s grip and rubs it. “Jesus, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I was talking to you and every time I looked at you, your creepy alpha eyes just fucking crippled my soul.” Derek blinks away the animal and his green eyes dart around. “I’m fine.” His chest quakes again. _Should I get out of the car?  
  
_ The Jeep rolls to a stop sign and Derek’s fingers slide toward the door handle. “Where am I taking you exactly?” Stiles asks, making a right. “I’m heading to the sheriff station really quick to bring some dinner to my dad.”  
  
“My loft. It’s near the industrial part of town.” Derek sighs, pulling his hand back into his lap. The car smells so _good._ It smells like cedar and dirt and strawberry frosting and Derek knows it should smell terrible, but _wow,_ it just _doesn’t._ “It’s only a couple minutes away from the station.” _Inhale._ His eyes flutter shut, and he listens.  
  
Stiles’s left knee is probably why the car is jolting half as much as it is because Derek is still sweating and it’s taking a lot of his willpower to not reach out and touch his perfectly sculpted body. _How do you do this to yourself, Stiles?_ He keeps stealing glances at the wolf beside him as he cruises through the neighborhood. Derek’s in gray sweats and a pair of running shoes and that’s _it._ With each deep breath he takes, his entire body just glistens and it’s honestly one of the most stunning things Stiles has seen since he was surrounded by the beauty that was the lacrosse team. His arms are just, _Jesus,_ they’re _massive._ His eyes drift down to where Derek’s hands are gripping the armrests and—  
  
“Furball, watch it. Be gentle.”

Derek jerks his arm up and there’s little holes where his claws used to be. “I can fix that.”  
  
Stiles sighs. “That’s what Scott said about the roof and his solution is _so_ well thought out.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s whatever.” He turns his head to look at Derek and he’s staring at Stiles blankly with flickering eyes again and honestly, it’s a _little_ unnerving. He hangs a right and pulls into the station. “Gimme five minutes.”  
  
Stiles throws the Jeep in park and grips a plastic bag in his right hand. Derek’s eyes trail the boy as he jogs into the brick building. Derek glances up at the moon glinting over the corner of the Beacon County Sheriff Station. The engine in front of him runs loudly, prompting the humid night air to condense on the teal paint of the hood. The steering wheel is vibrating lightly and there’s a manila envelope on the floor under the seat where the bag of food was. _You shouldn’t touch it._ There’s a Beacon County Sheriff seal in the center of the case file and it has a post-it from _The Office of_ _Noah Stilinski_ with a list of dates written on it. _Leave it, Derek._ He’s nosy and the file looks important. Perhaps Stiles forgot it? He grinds his teeth and stares down at the folder. _Do not get involved._ Derek goes against his better judgment, grabs the folder and the keys from the ignition, slides out of the car, and heads into the station.  
  
_"I’m not sure what’s going on, but I can tell you the same thing killed all of them.”_ Derek can hear Stiles softly speaking. _“We haven’t gotten any new information in the past couple days.”_ The Sheriff sighs and throws himself into his desk chair. _“We just got another today. Same MO, sustained the same wounds.”_ Derek’s eyes bolt down to the folder in his hand. His thumb brushes the edge of the papers and he _knows_ he shouldn’t open it. _“Shit, I left the case file in the car. Go find the harbinger of death down the hall and I’ll be right back to brief him.”  
  
_ Stiles opens the office door and nearly buries his face in Derek’s fist. “I was just about to knock.” He runs a hand through his hair and clenches his jaw, handing over the folder. “You left it and I figured it was supposed to come in with dinner.”  
  
Stiles takes it from Derek and backs into the office. “You couldn’t wait in the car for _five_ minutes?” _Deep breaths, Stiles, deep breaths._ He’s pretty sure a half-naked Derek standing in front of him in the sheriff station was a dream he had three nights ago.  
  
“Derek.” Derek looks past Stiles and nods at the Sheriff. “Sheriff. It’s been a while.” Stiles looks at his father and vigorously shakes his head just out of Derek’s line of sight. _He better not fucking dare._ He spastically jerks his neck around at the sheriff.  
  
Sheriff Stilinski raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you—”  
  
“Leave? We were just _leaving_.” Stiles tosses the file on his father’s desk and offers a quick smile. “Just…talk to Parrish and we’ll, uh, discuss it later.” He reaches behind him and presses a hand in the middle of Derek’s chest to push him back out of the office. “Make sure you eat _all_ of the carrots in there.” He pulls the door shut and leans against it for a second, before pointing to the exit. “Let’s, uh, get you home, yeah?”  
  
Derek clenches his jaw and walks back out the way he came in, with Stiles in tow. He doesn’t ask questions, only listens to the racing of Stiles’s heart. He tosses the car keys behind him and Stiles makes a leap for them, catching them in an outstretched hand and sliding along the tile floor. He rolls his eyes and glares up at Derek. “Completely unnecessary, you know that? I should’ve let you fucking walk home.” He pops up and hurries out of the station right to the door of the Jeep. “You were gonna walk anyway, I don’t know why I didn’t let you.” _Because you’re beautiful and perfect and literally terrifying and I couldn’t let you walk._ He crawls back into the driver’s seat and fires up the car. “Well? You just gonna stand there or are you getting in?”

             


“So, I assume you were busy today,” Stiles says, bobbing his chest to music that isn’t playing. “Was there a big shoot today or something? Or not so big? You seem like you never have any free time except for today so maybe it wasn’t a big one. I’ve always wanted to do something like that, modeling y’know. It looks _insane_. Like where do they get all the baby oil? Do you guys just ha—”  
  
“Do you ever shut up?” Derek looks down at where his claws have sunken into his palms and he watches a trickle of blood run down his forearm.  
  
Stiles’s eyes flicker over to Derek. “Whoa, hey, hey! Don’t bleed out on my seats!”  
  
“We’re almost there anyway. Take the next left.” He wipes his hand on his sweatpants and points at a towering concrete building. “This one.” The dismal gray wall staggers up into the sky, the multistory edifice blending seamlessly into the industrial suburb of Beacon Hills. It looks unfinished, and definitely dangerous. “This is… _charming,_ ” Stiles snorts, “which one’s yours?”  
  
“The penthouse,” Derek answers.  
  
Stiles pulls into a parking space aggressively. “I’m sure you’re a delight to your neighbors.”  
  
"I don’t have any neighbors.”  
  
“You don’t ha…” Stiles trails off, confused.  
  
Derek smirks and gets out of the Jeep. “I own the building.” Stiles doesn’t even get a chance to respond before Derek is jogging into the apartments. He waves at no one and rolls his eyes, tossing his head violently back onto the headrest a few times. _You have to be more careful, Stiles._ He hits the steering wheel and tosses the shift in reverse to back out of the parking space next to Derek’s car. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”  
  
_"Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”_ Derek’s watching the Jeep rumble down the road from the wall of windows behind the mahogany desk. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Xerox, unfolding it and sliding it to the center of the table. On it, the coroner’s reports of the first two victims in the case file. “Stiles, who the _hell_ are you?” 


	2. The Unstoppable Derek Hale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles doesn't fully understand how Derek could've been in two places at once. He seemed a little off the first time he walked into the bakery, smiling and actually nice for once in his life, and then five minutes later, he's back and broody and fucking arguing about how no, he wasn't in the bakery five minutes ago when Stiles literally fucking saw him with his own two eyes. And yeah, Derek's kind of a dick all the time, and now that Stiles knows what Derek looks like when he's smiling and personable, he's going to be an asshole right back.

 

   

 

 

Sunlight streams through the windows of the penthouse and pour onto Derek’s face, the inviting beams make his eyes flutter open and his arm instinctively reaches up to run through the damp black hair matted to his forehead. It isn’t warm in the loft, but nevertheless, Derek’s sweating profusely. He rolls over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, and something doesn’t feel quite right. A large hand picks up the phone from where’s residing on the bedside table and a swift swipe to the calendar confirms that he isn’t even shooting today, so why was he awake? The time reads 6:45 am, and Derek doesn’t get up, he doesn’t even make a move of getting out of bed any time soon. He sits up and his groggy eyes scan the bleak walls of the loft, from the city skyline to his right, over the ramshackle table and spiral staircase in front of him, all the way to the heavy steel entrance to his left. He’s catching a scent he’s never smelled before, but his heightened senses let him know that he’s absolutely alone in his apartment aside from the pigeon on the windowsill that won’t stop pecking at the glass. The black wife beater he’s wearing clings to his torso like a second skin and he wracks his brain, trying to remember bits and pieces from the nightmare he’d had the night before. It’s fascinating, having visions so vivid and so realistic, and then they’re gone as quickly as they were imagined up. Derek leans back against the headboard and lolls his head gently to the left, where a dried leaf is blowing across the concrete floor with the breeze of the cracked window. Curiosity gets the best of him, and with narrowed green eyes he inquisitively lifts a corner of his bedsheets to reveal more tattered leaves scattered across the mattress and dirt plastered in splotches on his legs and feet.

Great. He’s sleepwalking again. Well, the wolf inside of him is.

Derek slips his legs cautiously over the side of bed and stands, fingering at the hem of his black tank to grip it and peel it away from his sticky body before tossing it in the vicinity of the laundry basket behind the headboard. He knows something is wrong. He doesn’t want to look down, but he does, and his chest is surging underneath a paste of mud and… _is that blood?_ Another breeze creeps into the loft and carries the scent up to Derek’s nose while his fingers tremble, feeling their way over the caked mud. _This isn’t mine._ He can’t remember the last time his hands wavered so forcefully like this, and he turns them over a few times with the wolf inside clawing at his chest trying to help him desperately remember his dream. Perhaps it _wasn’t_ , and that’s why he was struggling so much to not shift, and maybe that’s what the sickening feeling is in the pit of his stomach. Derek doesn’t scare easily, but he’s terrified right now and has no idea fucking why, and the last time he was sleepwalking three miles into the middle of the fucking woods was when he was in high school, so whatever this thing is that’s brewing in Beacon Hills is affecting more than just its human residents. The only thing Derek’s hoping for as he clenches his hands to stop them from quivering, is that he didn’t kill anyone.

 

           

It’s not even noon and Stiles is already trying to solve another fucking murder. It seems like every single time he thinks he figures something out, another wrench—or another body, rather—makes the problem more and more uncontrollable. Evidently, this new corpse is just like the other gelatinous flesh pile they’d found earlier in the week, and with the permission of his father, he’s been granted access to the morgue. _Sort of_. He’s been given permission to _accompany someone_ who’s been granted access to the morgue, under the conditions that he touches _absolutely nothing_. “If you do so much as _breathe_ on that body, I’m grounding you,” were the exact words the Sheriff had commanded, and he’s not about to get ratted out by a hellhound.

“Melissa’s up a few floors, so I think you’ll be okay investigating without getting caught,” Parrish encourages, and with a swift turn, the cool steel door squeaks open and the lights flicker on at the detection of motion. There are two large metal trays on one of the examination tables with a large sheet covering both of them, and Stiles swallows thickly before cautiously padding forward after the deputy. “These are the latest two victims we found. Honestly, I’m not even sure we can call them victims because none of the DNA belongs to anyone dead.”

The room is cold and sterile and smells faintly of formaldehyde and bleach, with the white fluorescent lights casting a sickly glow on both the living and the dead. Parrish reaches forward and delicately folds the sheet back to reveal the remains. Stiles closes his eyes briefly and silently thanks all of his high school illegalities for giving him a strong stomach, because there’s a legitimate blob of melted skin in the tray on the table. “What the _fuck_ is this?” He reaches into the small rolling tray of mortician's tools, picks up a long needle, and pokes at whatever monstrosity is liquefied in front of him.

“Stiles don’t—”         

“Calm down, you would’ve done it.” He’s swirling the Hagedorn needle around and lifts it up, and both of them grimace at the long, slimy string of goo connecting the tool to the remains. “This is fucking disgusting.” He pushes the pile around some more, and honestly, what kind of lunatic are they dealing with here? The only rational explanation he can think of is a disease actually separating the skin from muscle tissue, and they haven’t had a case of Ebola in Beacon Hills literally ever. Plus, who infects someone, waits for them to die, and takes a fucking skinned body? Maybe they _are_ dealing with a serial killer, a _biohazardous_ serial killer.

“Wait, Stiles, stop,” Parrish quipped, and he’s picked up a pair of toothed forceps, “I think that’s an ear.” Sure enough, the steel forceps reach in with a _squish_ and retrieve an entire ear, which Parrish lays back on top of everything else despite the sneer on Stiles’s lips. There’s very little blood on any of the skin in the tray, and definitely not in what’s left of the ear that Parrish is now poking at with a scalpel, which leads him to rule out the Ebola theory considering they’d be dealing with a festering smoothie of hot blood, liquefied organs, and contagion-riddled vomit.

The needle clatters onto the rolling tray and Parrish looks up at Stiles with interested green eyes and a furrowed brow, while he paces in front of the examination table. “I need to do some research. This definitely isn’t a serial killer.” Stiles watches Parrish cover the tray back up with the cloth, “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

Parrish’s body stiffens, and his voice lowers to a whisper, “Neither have we.”

“And you don’t know who they are?”

An autopsy report is pushed across the examination table and Stiles reaches for it with hesitant fingers, and he’s a little uneasy at the mystery that waits for him in the chart. “They tested a sample of the skin from each of these trays. There’s animal hairs and blood from the dead bodies we have,” the deputy says, watching Stiles thumb through the papers on the clipboard in his hands, “but these piles of tissue? It’s the same DNA. They’re from the same person, and that person is still living, according to our records.”

“Derek Hale,” Stiles mutters to himself as the mugshot with the lens flares shows up paperclipped to the second autopsy report. “I don’t understand. You haven’t arrested him?”

"We have no grounds. Look at this shit, Stiles.” Parrish whisks the cloth off of both trays at once and _good god, that’s repulsive_. “If this _was_ Derek, he’d be dead.”

“That just means I have some research to do, now doesn’t it?”

 

——

  

Pages and pages of information and almost all of it seems to be completely useless considering Stiles has been at it for over three hours and still hasn’t uncovered anything even remotely relevant to the details of the case. There’s a piece of paper from a yellow legal pad sitting on the desk to Stiles’s right and in his chicken-scratch is a list of creatures he’s already managed to eliminate, with the exception of four.

 

 

He’s stressed. “Alright,” he mumbles, his hands rubbing together and fingers wiggling, “let’s see what we’ve got here. Aswang, you’re up.” There’s an unsettling feeling in the pit of Stiles’s stomach that’s never been there before, and he can only assume that whatever reason is causing it isn’t a good one. He desperately doesn’t want Derek to have anything to do with this because it means he’d be falling for a murderer, and while that’s insanely in character for who he is as a person, Stiles isn’t sure he’s quite ready to visit Derek in prison while he brings in the next fucking Ted Bundy or something. Werewolf is at the top of this creature catalog with the single most reason being that Derek is one, and if he does turn out to be the one slaughtering the residents of Beacon Hills like lambs…Stiles doesn’t want to even imagine it. “Aswang,” he repeats, and the article has piqued his interest because now he’s worried that he’s falling for a murderer.

“Shapeshifters disguised as townspeople, quiet and elusive, transform at night into creatures like bats, crows, boars, or most commonly,” Stiles’s voice lowers to a whisper, “big black dogs. Oh, _God._ ” He doesn’t even know, does Derek turn into a big black dog? Dogs and wolves are the same, right? He grabs a pen and starts jotting down important factoids on the legal pad to his right. “Enjoys unborn fetuses and small children, okay. Has a long prob—uh, probose— _proboscises_?” Stiles vaguely remembers studying insect anatomy in biology and makes a side note for the poor sap that has to read these in the case file, “ _Tubey tongue_ to suck the children out of their mother’s wombs while they’re sleepi…Jesus _Christ_ , that’s horrifying. Uh, fast and silent, if noises are made, louder the noise, the farther away to cause confusion, will replace victims with plant material doppelgangers, bloodshot eyes, nocturnal, daywalkers, what else?” There are two stacks of books upon books in the corner of the desk that are old and tattered with yellowing pages, and the one on Filipino lore isn’t one Stiles has even cracked open yet. He picks it up and skims over the table of contents to find the creature he’s looking for before turning to the proper page and intently scanning the behavioral page. “Vulnerable in the daytime because of a lack of superhuman strength, can also be _befriended?_ ” That’s a gamechanger.

He likes to think that he and Derek are friends, with the cupcakes and the sink fixing and the ride home, but then again, Derek isn’t the most pleasant of people, so maybe they’re not friends. “Can be repelled or killed with garlic, salt, and religious artifacts, cannot step on consecrated ground, decapitation is also an option,” Stiles reads further to find an easier way to immediately decide if Derek is going to go baby sucking any time soon, “To spot an aswang in daytime, look straight into their eyes. If the reflection is upside-down, the person in front of you is an aswang. Another way is to look at the person upside-down between your legs and if their image is different, they’re an aswang. O _kay_ , easy enough.” He’s terrified because what if Derek _is_ this fetus-draining, tubey-tongued, daywalking _thing_ that he sees every single day stroll into his bakery to get a dozen cupcakes? The FBI can’t just catch him and lock him up because a prison full of meals isn’t going to prevent murders, but facilitate them even more, so Stiles is slowly realizing that if this ends up being what they’re looking for, he’s going to have to literally cut Derek’s head off.

His long fingers reach for a prescription bottle of Adderall up next to the dusty lamp casting a warm glow on almost everything in the dark room. The blinds are drawn and the sunlight is leaking through to draw lines on the carpet, over books and clothes and maps that he’s using to figure out how to best monitor a perimeter in the preserve. Without taking his honey brown eyes off of the computer screen, he pops the lid on the bottle and tosses two pills into his mouth and washes them down with a swig of water, willing himself to focus for just a little while longer. He’s got to get down to the station and let Parrish and his father know what he’s found so far, so that mistakes are kept to a minimum, along with the whole town protection thing too. Stiles sighs deeply and shuts his computer, that uneasy feeling in his stomach only worsening at the heartbreaking possibility of seeing Derek at the bakery later when he goes to check on Liam and Scott. He knows that there’s a very _very_ strong possibility that Derek is just an alpha and not some creepy fetus stealer, and for a moment the sick feeling he had goes away at the thought of Derek’s dark, stubbly face and how it probably feels rubbing against his own jaw, with those perfect lips and those indignant, tantalizing green eyes. Maybe, once all of this chaos passes, Stiles can take Derek on a date, probably a nice restaurant, maybe a hike through the preserve, or just a movie night in, who knows. He shakes his head to try and focus back on packing his things into a backpack, sliding in the old books and the pages of research he’s printed off of the internet. He zips the bag and grabs the Adderall for good measure before he runs downstairs and snatches his keys off of the hook by the door. “Please let me be wrong.”

 

Stiles runs into the station and nearly misses three deputies in an attempt to get to the Sheriff’s office as quickly as he can, one of those being just the one he was looking for. “Perfect timing,” Stiles pants, attempting to catch his breath before he throws open the door to his dad’s office and starts talking a mile a minute, “Parrish, I’ve found something.”

The sheriff holds a hand up to Stiles once he’s opened the door and the younger purses his lips in frustration as he tosses a look to his left and right at Parrish, who’s patiently waiting. Stiles is rolling his eyes at the fact that no one seems to have a sense of urgency around here? People are _dying_ and he could have a lead and _no one_ is listening to the FBI intern with an insatiable itch to just dig, dig, _dig_ into research and—

“What is it now, Stiles?”

“Dad!” he all but sobs with an eclectic mixture of excitement and terror and nearly everything in between, barely able to get his words out coherently, “I think got something that might help. You see, I found this creature called an aswang a-and I have a theory on how it could be related to Derek so—”

“Whoa, whoa, Stiles,” the sheriff picks up the paper Stiles has all but gently slid across the desk and his brow furrows, “slow down. You’re telling me that this creature could be the one killing people?”

Stiles nods vigorously until his father sets the paper down again, and his eyes shift to the deputy standing beside his son. “Parrish, can you do some reading on this? Make sure that we have enough precautionary defense just in case this is what we’re dealing with.” Stiles watches Parrish leave the office before he ponders ways to prod at the gears turning in his father’s head, unsure if he’s going to take any drastic measure to protect the rest of the town. “We’ve gotten reports of a large black dog with red eyes trashing yards and running into the woods. No one’s gotten a picture of it, so animal control’s been trying to track its movements and catch it, but we aren’t sure if it looks—

“Like this?” Stiles holds up an issue of _Loup-Garou_ magazine from several years prior and on the front, a large black wolf is perched on a craggy rock looking with glowing crimson eyes toward the bolded text on the side column, _The Unstoppable Derek Hale._ He raises an eyebrow and tosses the magazine down on the desk, landing with a _smack_ on top of various case files and Stiles’s copious notes on the aswang. “I found it in the public library periodicals. Don’t you think that maybe I should—”

“No,” his father interrupts, “I think we’re going to look into this, and that you in _absolutely no way_ should take any matters into your own hands. Let us do our job, and you need to keep yourself safe and undercover. If you see something, you call me or Parrish. Are we understood?”

Stiles can’t believe he’s being benched, per usual. “Dad, are you sure? _Please,_ let me help! I can—”

“Are we  _understood?”_

“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles bites, bobbing his head and pursing his lips before he spins on a heel and walks out of the office. _Seriously?_ With everything that’s going on and all of the supernatural drama he was involved with in high school, Stiles doesn’t understand why he’s not being utilized more in the investigation. He’s pretty damn good with that baseball bat in the back of his car. He makes his way out of the sheriff station and hops back into his jeep, rumbling his way down to the bakery.

 

Stiles spends the next couple of hours helping Liam finish baking up the healthy alternatives for the Argent shoot tomorrow, and surprisingly enough, he’s figured out a way to make the cupcakes taste just as good with more wholesome ingredients. He’s putting away all of the contents strewn across the counter and doing his best to clean the whole wheat flour, coconut oil, and Greek yogurt splattered on the kitchen island as he goes, so that once it’s time to leave, he can pack up and head out to the woods in search of clues. He rolls his eyes as he puts the applesauce back into the cooler, because he’s not just going to sit this one out. Since when has he ever listened to instructions? For god’s sake, he’s kept the fucking police scanner in his car for over 6 years when his father told him to take it out _over 6 years ago_ , so like _hell_ is he going to just hang back and let everyone else get to do all of the fun crime-solving.

He runs into Liam hanging his apron up on the hook next to the door and offers a kind smile. “Thank you so much for helping with all of this,” Stiles says, turning on an oven light to check the cupcakes, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Liam responds, and he’s pointing at the oven, “I forgot how much I like baking things. I get why you do it. It’s cathartic.”

Stiles watches the batter bubbling in the tins and turns to the teen in the doorway with a curious look. “You’re helping tomorrow, right? I could use an extra set of hands getting all the stuff there while Scott’s holding down the fort here. I’m sure we won’t be very long.”

“Yeah, why not?” Liam smiles and agrees before leaving, and Stiles can hear him from the kitchen as he walks out the front door, “Oh, shit, sorry man.”

Stiles curiously peeks his head out from the kitchen and sees none other than Derek, green eyes brightly gazing around the shop as if he’d never seen it before. He’s in all black, with a leather jacket hanging over his broad shoulders, and sunglasses suspended on the collar of his black Henley. Stiles’s chest immediately tightens, and he desperately wants everything he’s researched to disappear because Derek is so _stunning_ and all he wants is to be able to pine from afar and not think he’s a homicidal maniac.  _Act nonchalant, Stiles. It’s just Derek._ Taking a calming breath, Stiles walks into the storefront with a smile on his face and a panic in his heart. “Hey, Derek, what can I get you?”

Derek turns from staring at the record player and flashes Stiles a _smile_? “Hey, Stiles. Could I get a dozen chocolate cupcakes?” Stiles stops and glances around for a second before leaning over the counter to stare directly into Derek’s jade orbs, and his reflection? _Normal,_ he thinks. “Stiles, what are you doing?” Derek’s eyes keep shifting back and forth between both of Stiles’s and he swears, for a second the light hit them and they just illuminated a silvery white before returning to a light green.

“Just making sure you’re okay,” Stiles answers with a chuckle, popping back behind the register. “I never thought I’d see the day you order something besides your usual.” And there it is again, Derek Hale smiling at something Stiles said, which makes the baker nervously grin back at him.

“Just mixing it up today.”

“Well, let me box those up for you.” So, Stiles does, packs up the chocolate cupcakes, and stares at the prepackaged dozen of red velvet sitting in the refrigerator with a frown on his face. Something isn’t right. He takes the dozen and puts a sticker on the edge of the box before he slides it across the counter to Derek, who pays happily. “Derek, I told you, you get free cupcakes. I’m not going to accept this.”

Derek pauses, hand hovering over the cash laid on the counter. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Enjoy your cupcakes.”

“See you tomorrow, Stiles,” Derek chimes, and flashes another grin before taking the money back and leaving the bakery. Stiles purses his lips and falls to sit back against the wall behind the register, because _what the fuck just happened?_ He may or may not be slightly offended that Derek didn’t get his usual red velvet considering he finally got the hint to have them already ready for the brooding alpha for when he gets here. And why was he smiling? Derek Hale doesn’t smile ever. All of the magazines Stiles went through at the library this morning proves exactly that point, with every single spread being absolutely gorgeous, but a scowl is carved into Derek’s features in each and every photo. Everything is silent for a second, and Stiles doesn’t think he even heard Derek’s Camaro angrily roar away, but he does, however, hear it angrily purr into the parking lot.

And Derek walks into the bakery.

“Derek?”

He’s in a red Henley and dark wash jeans with an inky scruff spread along his cheeks and soft lips, which are curved downward into their typical scowl. “What the fuck are you doing?” He glares down at Stiles from in front of the register, his expression softening a little when he listens to how rapidly the boy’s heart is pounding inside his chest.

“You were just here.”

“No, I wasn’t. I was just at the sheriff station.” Derek’s then looks just as confused as Stiles’s, and they both are silent for a moment before Derek walks over to the front door and flips the deadbolt. He closes the blinds in both storefront windows and stalks back over to where Stiles has gotten up off of the floor. “Stiles, what the _hell_ are you talking about?”

Stiles grimaces at Derek, “What do you mean what am I talking about? You literally just came in here five minutes ago all fucking smiles and got your cupcakes and walked out! And you’re telling me you were at the sheriff station? Nice try, buddy.” He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and glowers right back at Derek as he dials his father.

“Stiles—” Is Stiles _seriously_ holding a hand up in his face right now? He can feel his blood boiling and his claws are digging into his palms, letting small droplets of blood onto the floor.

“Hey, dad, was Derek—he was? No, he was at the bakery. What do you mean _no?_ I sold him a dozen cupcakes, of course he was here! I have—Dad—D— _DAD, listen to me._ I literally have it on camera! Y-Yes, I _can_ bring it home to prove to you it’s real, I just—yes, okay, but—okay, bye.” Stiles looks from Derek, to the door, back to Derek. “Why were you at the sheriff station?”

“Why is it any of your business?” Derek snaps, slamming a fist on the counter.

Stiles stares straight into Derek’s eyes. “Because your little werewolf ass just came back into _my_ bakery after leaving less than five minutes ago with the biggest fucking cheeseball grin on your face and you were _nice_ for once in your life? If you told me right now that it _wasn’t_ you, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised because it’s clearly going to give you some heartburn if you act pleasantly toward someone for more than ten seconds. You’re one of the most _insufferable_ people I’ve ever met in my life.”

“It. Wasn’t. Me.” Derek grits out, trying to control his anger. “I was at the sheriff station to answer a few questions about the murders around here and clear my fucking name, considering I’m apparently a suspect even though I’ve been at work every time someone dies.” Derek’s scanning Stiles for anything suspicious, because he still doesn’t understand why Stiles would have that case file and he’s been involved with law enforcement enough in his life to know that the last thing the sheriff should legally be doing is letting his child in on a criminal investigation.

“So, you’re a fugitive now?” And Derek senses himself climb over the counter to grip the front of Stiles’s apron, and with a swift motion, Stiles is slammed against the wall with Derek’s body pressing into him to hold him there, growling inches from his nose. He lets out a shaky breath and his honey brown eyes shift rapidly back and forth between Derek’s seething red ones, the wolf’s lips curled into a snarl to reveal long, pearly canines. “Wow, grandma, what big teeth you have.”

“You better fucking watch it,” Derek barks maliciously, claws tearing through the apron in a bout of anger. The wolf inside is thrashing at the earthy, cinnamony scent wafting off of Stiles and it turns his vexation into a craving for more of that smell. Stiles is scanning Derek’s features because his look went from feral to hungry in a matter of seconds, but he’s not about to bear his throat in submission to this indignant jackass that obviously always has the upper hand. He’s pissed at Derek for ripping his apron and he’s pissed at Derek for threatening him and he’s pissed at Derek for pinning him against the wall with his rock-hard body because he’s so into the woodsy smell of Derek’s aftershave and the feeling of his chest pressed against his own.

“I’m not afraid of you, Derek,” Stiles whispers, letting his eyes flicker between Derek’s eyes and his perfectly pink mouth, and he lets out a shaky breath and flicks his tongue out to lick his own lips. Nervous habit.

Derek knows he’s only partially lying because he can smell the fear coming off of Stiles, and the rage, and the _lust._ The wolf is yearning for more contact, but Derek backs up and drops Stiles, blinking away the ferocity and climbing back over the counter. He stalks over to the front door and flips the deadbolt to let himself out. “You should be.”

 

——

 

The next morning, Allison rushes to meet Stiles and Liam in the parking lot of the studio they’re shooting at with dazzling smile and big hug. “Thank you so much for doing this for us. It means a lot and I know the crew is going to have a field day with good snacks. How can I help?” Stiles hands her a pastry box full of cupcakes and picks two others up to carry himself, Liam taking a crate of bread and shutting the back of the Jeep. “Okay,” Allison says, “Follow me. Be as quiet as you can, they’re already shooting.”

She leads them into the freight doors of the studio space and Stiles can’t help but look around at the old warehouse and how economical the Argents are with their designing. The trailers are in the parking lot but inside there’s rusty shipping crates converted into dressing room spaces with furniture and vanities, and there’s standalone vanities set up around different shooting areas for makeup and hair. It’s incredibly intricate for such a large operation, and Stiles wonders how long they’ve been doing editorials. There’s a long wooden table in the middle of the warehouse where Allison’s stopped, rearranging the fruits and veggies already on there to make room for the boxes of cupcakes and treats.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Chris,” a blond girl storms around a white backdrop and is making a beeline for the food table while Allison’s father jogs after her with a camera in his hands, “he’s starting to piss me off with his attitude.”

Chris sighs with a look that says he knows she’s right. “Erica, you don’t have many shoots left with him. Once they’re over, fight all you want, I’d just like to keep my white sheets white. I have too many that are bloodstained already.” He follows her to where she’s halted right in front of the box of red velvet cupcakes Stiles has just opened, reaching in and taking one. She scans Stiles’s lanky frame and takes a bite of the treat in her hand.

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Stiles,” he offers with an outstretched hand that Erica doesn’t plan on taking. “I’m just dropping off some cupcakes.”

She takes another bite and narrows her gaze, and with a mouthful of scarlet crumbs, she inquires, “ _You’re_ the baker?” And Stiles nods with a small smile because yes, he is in fact, the baker. Erica’s face lights up with a crazed grin and she turns to Chris. “Make him do it. He’ll listen to the baker.”

Chris seems to ponder the idea for a moment and Stiles just stares at Liam because, honestly, he has no idea what’s going on or why it’s happening but if he gets to take some photos today, it’ll be a weird fantasy come true. “Okay, Stiles, let’s get you a wardrobe.”

They get him out of his graphic tee and flannel and into a thick knit blue sweater with a left breast pocket and a pair of slim fit dark wash jeans to accentuate the figure Stiles never knew he had. Allison fixes his hair and Lydia puffs on some makeup, both girls relentlessly inquiring about his new internship at the FBI. He makes sure to stick to the story that Agent McCall gave him because there’s absolutely nothing that’s going to throw him off of his game except for—

“Chris, I’m not doing this.” Stiles knows that gruff, irritated voice anywhere. He turns in the swivel chair and comes face to face with Derek, who’s looming over Stiles in a pair of blue jeans and no shirt. “There’s no way—"

“Humor me, Derek,” taunts Chris, “Stiles is great at following direction and he's been taking his Adderall every morning for the past four years I've known him. You’ll be fine.” He walks back to the backdrop and Derek looks _pissed_ , but Stiles isn’t going to let this opportunity to put Derek in his place pass him up.

“C’mon, Derek, I don’t bite.” And Stiles raises an eyebrow before he leaves Lydia’s vanity and meets Chris in front of the backdrop with a growling Derek in tow.

Chris’s only direction is, “Do what feels natural.” Derek fists Stiles’s sweater and pulls him close like he’d done in the bakery the night prior, but Stiles isn’t afraid this time. He’s got a huge smirk on his face and Derek’s trying hard not to shift and rip off the sweater that looks so good on Stiles’s slim frame. “Why are you here?” Chris is snapping photos and Stiles brings an arm up to grip Derek’s wrist, while the photographer keeps yelling at them to “act on natural chemistry” because apparently that’s a thing that they have.

“Allison asked me to cater healthy snacks, so here I am,” Stiles explains, letting his eyes wander over Derek’s naked torso, shimmering with perspiration underneath the warm studio lights. “Anything else you’d like to know?” Stiles can see the intrigue in Derek’s eyes and he tightens his grip on Derek’s wrist with both hands now, never once breaking eye contact. “You wanna let me go?”

Derek doesn’t, he doesn’t ever want to let the little shit go because he smells so _good_ and he had no idea Stiles had muscle mass underneath the six shirts and flannels he wears to work every day. He does though, and almost immediately Stiles rushes forward and clasps one hand around Derek’s throat and the other pins his left hand over his head when they crash into the wall that the backdrop sheet is hanging in front of. Chris yells something about artistic vision and Derek’s eyes pierce through Stiles’s brown orbs, and his right hand reaches up to grab the hand around his throat, but Stiles swings his wrist out, smashing Derek’s hand against the cinderblock wall and pinning it with the other above his head in a singlehanded grip. His right hand returns to its place around Derek’s neck and he smirks at his self-defense training. “If you want to fight Derek, I’ll fight.” His thumb presses into the side of Derek’s neck and Stiles can feel his pulse racing underneath his fingers, almost as if Derek’s _enjoying_ their bickering. He’s fully aware that Derek could break out of this hold at any time, and he’s also fully aware that Derek isn’t going to hurt him, but the only thing he’s focusing on right now is that Derek’s panting up against the wall and doesn’t seem to have any intention of breaking free.

“I like this obedient Derek centerfold inspiration,” Chris yells over the music pulsing through the studio speakers, “I’ve never seen it before. Keep doing what you’re doing, Stiles.”

So, Stiles keep doing what he’s doing, his eyes shifting between Derek’s apoplectic green ones in front of him, and he smells that aftershave again as it lingers in the air around Derek’s jaw. Stiles is so close to his face that he’s surprised Derek hasn’t shifted yet, and a warmth in his chest spreads throughout his entire body when he watches Derek’s eyes slide down from his eyes to his lips. He wants so badly to capture Derek’s whole body between himself and the wall and, _God,_ just bite that perfect scowl that’s always etched onto his face. He smoothly slips his left knee against the wall between Derek’s legs, and that earns him a breathy growl from the older that he cuts short, pushing his hand up to the tender flesh right underneath Derek’s jaw and jerking his head to the right to expose Derek’s throat.

“Good, hold it!” Chris praises, encouraging Stiles to look left into the camera. “Now switch, Stiles, stand behind Derek and do that again!”

And Derek doesn’t resist when Stiles lets him go, he only steps forward to let Stiles squeeze behind him, and when he does, he pushes his back against the younger and knocks the breath out of him. Derek grinds his teeth when Stiles inhales deep on the back of his neck and he’s glaring at Chris, who’s snapping a burst of Stiles’s arms snaking over his shoulders to grab his throat with his right hand. The wolf is ripping at the inside of his chest and he’s sweating because Stiles smells like rain and leaves and it’s all so crisp and clean that the wave of pheromones that rolls off of Stiles surprises Derek a little bit. He clenches his jaw and turns his head to look at the boy, and all he sees is a little simper from Stiles before long, slender fingers spider their way into his hair and yank his head to the left. His throat is vulnerable again and he can hear his heart drumming in his chest and drowning out the relentless gnashing of the wolf under his skin, he swallows thickly and lets his eyes go red at the camera. He doesn’t pay attention to anything Chris is shouting but Stiles does, and all of a sudden, he smells embarrassment and Stiles doesn’t let Derek up at all while he protests with the photographer.

“I-I can’t do—are you _sure?_ I’m clearly already crossing a line here,” Stiles argues, shooting a look down at Derek, who scowls right back and snarls when the fingers in his hair clench tighter, “he’s going to rip my throat out if I bite him. He’s already crushing me against the wall.” Derek pushes backward and a breathless _‘Fuck’_ tumbles from Stiles’s lips and sends a shiver up his spine. “Fine,” Stiles barks, “I’ll fucking bite him.”

“Stiles, when this shoot is over, I swear to _God_ I’m going to—” Derek’s breath stops and catches right in the back of his throat when Stiles’s blunt human teeth roughly sink into the tendons on the exposed side of his neck. Stiles flicks his tongue against the damp skin between his teeth, tightening his hold on the alpha’s throat by pressing a thumb into Derek’s carotid artery and feeling the pulse thump beneath his fingertips. Derek’s skin is salty, and the musky smell of the wolf and the aftershave is flooding Stiles’s nose and _wow,_ he’s sweating in the cord-knit he has on and he’s become hyperaware of Derek’s tight ass firmly pressed into his groin. His mind is spinning because he has no idea where this rage and dominance came from when he feels Derek’s throat vibrate with a low rumble, so he bites down harder because, _oh yeah,_ Derek being a fucking _asshole_ all the time has driven an urge inside Stiles to put him in his place. He bets a pretty face like Derek’s doesn’t get told _no_ very often.

Derek’s stewing and the wolf is in a frenzy because it just _wantswantswants_ everything about Stiles and he’s trying _so hard_ to stay calm, but his eyes are flickering with each puff of the baker’s hot breath on his neck and he just relinquishes every ounce of control he has left and lets the booming howl rip from his core. It hurts and his body burns and he notices Stiles’s hold on him slackens when his knees give out and his leaden body becomes two hundred pounds of dead weight.

The whole crew is gathered behind Chris, who hasn’t stopped holding down the shudder button, and they’re staring at Stiles with endless curiosity. “Okay, guys, take a break and wardrobe change, and we’ll regroup in thirty with Derek and Stiles.” Everyone disperses except for the aforementioned pair and Stiles just watches the contraction of Derek’s intercostals as he pants on all fours.

“Derek, I—are you okay?” he chokes out, reaching a hand down to gently touch the wolf’s shoulder. Derek’s arm flies up and wraps around his wrist before he even gets close, and he doesn’t even turn around when he tightens his grip and lets his claws pierce the pale skin on Stiles’s forearm. The boy hisses and wrenches his wrist free, leaving droplets of his precious B negative on the pure white muslin under their feet.

“Shut up, Stiles.” And Derek stalks off.

 

——

 

Derek can’t sleep. He doesn’t understand Stiles and he doesn’t understand himself, and he can’t grasp this infatuation he has with the spine-tingling chill that comes when Stiles wraps his long, willowy fingers tight around Derek’s neck. He’s so _fucking angry_ at himself for submitting because he’s an alpha for _fuck’s sake,_ but Jesus Christ, that rush of pure pleasure he felt with Stiles’s teeth embedded in his skin is something he needs more of. His eyes flutter shut, and his fingers find their way to his neck to rub the tender bruise where he’s purposely halted the healing process. If he wasn’t sure about his attraction to Stiles, he’s definitely interested now.

Stiles had apologized after their second session in the studio, for reasons unknown, and Derek just thinks Stiles is assuming his boundaries. The second shoot was less aggressive, but Derek was sure the boy was shaken from the events of their first. They tried a bit of role reversal the second time around, with Derek fully clothed on the ground with a stunningly shirtless Stiles looming over his body. The boy’s skin is dotted with little moles and it’s so smooth that Derek had to be careful not to reach up and touch him in fear that he’d lose himself again. He’s got a lean, muscular frame on him too, with an enticing trail leading from his navel and disappearing under the waistband of his Calvins. Just thinking about it is making him sweat and the wolf stir in his body, and now he’s livid about it all over again. He’s even angrier about the fact that he’d locked himself in his dressing room and by the time he’d come out, Stiles was gone and in his place was a small cardboard cube with a handwritten note taped to the top that read, _I brought you one that wasn’t made with whole wheat flour and applesauce, but with all the gluten and carbohydrates._ He’d left another business card underneath the note, with a phone number written in white gel ink overtop the stripes on the back of it.

Derek didn’t call it, and Derek doesn’t plan on calling it, but not because he doesn’t want to. He’s never been this scared in his life. He’s not sure why he’s so afraid, maybe because he’s not quite sure what falling for someone so _absolutely fucking right_ feels like, maybe because the wolf inside of him is definitely sure that its Stiles, maybe because he knows that he’s not going to be able to deny this craving he and the wolf have whenever he steps foot into that fucking bakery. But something isn’t right still, and Derek just needs to keep this insatiable ache at bay long enough for him to figure out what’s so peculiar about the baker. The moonlight streams into the windows and casts shadows on the foot of Derek’s bed that wills him to restless sleep, yet another night full of visions.

 

Stiles can’t sleep. He doesn’t understand Derek and he doesn’t understand himself, and he can’t grasp this fixation he has with the surge of desire that comes when Derek gasps and quakes and growls underneath the touch of Stiles’s fingers. He’s so _fucking angry_ at himself for relentlessly taking control because Derek’s an alpha for _fuck’s sake,_ but Jesus Christ, that wave of hedonism he felt with Derek’s pulse flowing through his fingertips is something he wants more of. His eyes flutter shut, and his fingers find their way to his wrist to rub the halfmoons from Derek’s claws where they pierced his skin and drew blood. If he had any doubts about how alluring Derek is, they’ve flipped to absolute certainty.

Derek had stormed off after their second session, so Stiles should’ve known a cupcake and a phone number wouldn’t even come close to making up for the shame Derek probably felt submitting as an alpha, to a _human_ nonetheless. A tiny part of his mind is keeping him awake in the slim hope that Derek’s going to make the call and at least let him apologize for following direction because he didn’t come back to Beacon Hills with the intention of finding anyone—he only wanted to find the murderous killer on the loose—but now he’s become hooked on Derek and doesn’t plan on letting go. Chris had given Stiles his wardrobe as a thank you for “putting up with Derek’s antics” and a business card in case he ever needed promo shots of the bakery or anything. When he’d taken the clothes off of the hanger at home, an old business card was taped to the hanger with a ratty masking tape label reading _Derek Hale_ , and on that card was everything he ever needed to know about Derek: suit, inseam, shoe, height, waist, and a _phone number._

Stiles didn’t call it, and Stiles doesn’t even think of calling it, but not because he doesn’t want to. He’s terrified. He can’t pinpoint exactly why he’s so afraid, maybe because he’s not quite sure what’s going to happen if Derek just willingly submits and Stiles lets himself go, maybe because he doesn’t want to get close to anyone just to up and leave back to headquarters once the case is solved, or maybe because once he finally breaks down Derek’s wall he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to let him go again. But something isn’t right still, and Stiles needs to stop his advances on Derek until they can figure out for sure that he isn’t the serial killer on the loose. The moonlight streams into the windows and casts shadows on the carpet next to Stiles’s bed, and it’s bright and inviting, so Stiles does what he does best when he doesn’t see the police cruiser in their driveway yet and decides to go searching in the woods for that big black dog.

When Stiles had brought home the security footage from the bakery the night before, it clearly showed Derek walk into the bakery in all black with zero indication prior to his arrival, no headlights, no turbo exhaust purr. He looks up at the camera and there’s a silver lens flare, he takes his cupcakes, and he walks out. No headlights, no turbo exhaust roaring away. Then a couple minutes later, there _is_ headlights and there _is_ an exhaust rumble on the other side of the storefront windows, Derek walks into the bakery in a red shirt and jeans, he looks up at the camera when Stiles mentions them on the phone and there is _no lens flare_. Another camera at a different spot catches a red lens flare when Derek shifts and knocks Stiles up against the wall, and when Derek stalks out of the bakery, there’s headlights and the exhaust roar from that 6.2L supercharged V8 DI engine before he speeds down the road. So, Stiles is _absolutely_ convinced that there’s two Dereks, because there’s also a recording from their interrogation at the sheriff station with a timestamp overlap from the bakery video. They just need to figure out which Derek isn’t actually Derek, and they need to figure out what he is.

His jeep rattles to a halt in front of a thin metal gate with a burnished birch wood sign swinging in the breeze that reads _Beacon Hills Preserve: No Entry After Dark._ Stiles ignores it. He’s certainly done it before, even later than the 2:13 am that the jeep radio currently reads, and it’s obviously not the last time he’s going to do it, because he’s FBI now—technically an intern, but it still counts in his mind—and he’s got a fucking police scanner in his jeep. That scanner is undoubtedly the reason he gets into trouble because it has a way of beckoning him right into crime scenes, except for tonight. He’s flipped through all the stations on his way over and got nothing, so it looks like he’s on his own with a flashlight, a set of brass knuckles, and a chain-wrapped baseball bat.

It’s dark, but Stiles can see pretty well with the vibrant glow of the near full moon leaking through the canopy of trees to illuminate the brush underneath his Nikes. He tucks his bat underneath his arm for a second to zip his red hoodie up to his neck, blocking out the chilly October breeze wisping over the goosebumps on his skin. If that black dog, more likely _wolf_ , is out here in the woods, Stiles can only think of one place that would be sheltered and safe enough for it to make a home, so he hangs a left and sets off towards the charred infrastructure of the Hale house.

The only noise Stiles can hear besides the leaves crunching under his feet and the bugs chirping in the trees is the beating of his own heart. Clouds are starting to trickle in front of the moon and the beam from his flashlight is becoming more important as the night creeps on. An owl hoots in the distance and his heart skips out of fear, but he treks on and the manor suddenly soars into the sky immediately in front of him. Stiles doesn’t know why but the sight of the blackened splinters of wood jabbing upward into the clearing makes his stomach drop instantaneously and he becomes hyperaware of snapping twigs and rustling trees all around him.

There’s a large clearing in front of the house that Stiles can only assume was once consistently used and full of life before it became a slaughterhouse, burning from the cellar and taking at least nine lives with it. He hastens toward the clearing and nearly trips over what his flashlight reveals to be one stray sneaker covered in dirt and brush, and upon further inspection, a huge lump lay along the tree line of the glade. His fingers reach into a pocket and fumble around for his phone and the two percent that it’s got left and he’s dialing 911 and praying that he can at least tell the operator what’s going on.

“ _911, what’s your emergency?_ ”

“I think found a body, o-out on the preserve. I was going for a walk a-and—”

_“Sir, please stay calm. What is your location?”_

His heart’s racing and his mouth is trying to form a coherent sentence. “The burned-out Hale—” And the line goes dead.

His legs can’t take him forward any faster and he comes upon a boy, staring up at him with large blue eyes and the attempts he makes to speak are drowned out by the gargling of blood gushing from his slit throat. _Nonononono,_ Stiles chants in his head, clamping his hands over the wound in an attempt to stop the hemorrhaging and just do _something_ to prevent this kid from bleeding out in the middle of the woods because he told himself there wouldn’t be any more victims and that he was going to find this fucking thing and now here he is, watching another kid choke on his own blood. The life fades out of the boy’s eyes and the burbling stops to let a thick, sanguine puddle slowly leak around his limp body and Stiles stands up, hands shaking violently and varnished a shiny crimson. He knows a deputy is probably on their way and he’s hit with an overwhelming urge to just run, and he does, out of the clearing, out of the woods, and into his jeep.

He climbs into the car and starts driving away from the preserve, and no, he definitely shouldn’t have gone out investigating alone because now he’s looking hella guilty driving away from a crime scene with blood on his hands, literally. He’s white-knuckling it all the way home, and lucky for him, the sheriff is probably one of the dispatched units on scene right about now because his cruiser isn’t in the driveway. Stiles throws the car into park and just sits there for an eternity listening to the static cracking of the scanner in his console, until it quickly becomes full of chatter on nearly every station.

_"This is the Sheriff, I need back up on the preserve, we’ve got another body.”_

_“10-4, Parrish is in the area and should be headed your way.”_

_“Copy that, I’m pulling up to the preserve now, what’s your location?”_

_“The Hale house, and send an ambulance. This poor kid is still warm.”_

Stiles wipes his red hands on his red hoodie and flips off the scanner before he has a panic attack listening to the reports when he knows he’s just going to have to read them later. He takes off his jacket and balls it up in his hand to wipe the evidence from the wheel and the door of the jeep before he takes himself inside. He strips down to his skivvies and compulsively scrubs at his hands until they’re raw and even then, Stiles can still see the blood in the ridges of his fingertips and he feels it soaking into clothes he isn’t wearing, so he pops a Xanax to curb the panic attack that’s trying to suffocate him before he walks into his bedroom and falls into one of the most restless sleeps he’s ever had.

 

——

 

Derek rolls over and the old aroma of ashen yellow cedar that fills his nose is what jolts him awake. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know exactly where he is and why he’s there, and between the nauseating aroma of beta blood and the swarm of deputies, he knows he shouldn’t leave unless he wants a death sentence by firing squad. They’ve been combing through the preserve for the better part of six hours and besides most units being police on the scene, Derek hears paramedics, a medical examiner, and a _Stiles?_ Derek carefully lifts himself up and silently pads over to an ashy window to get a better idea of the investigation below, maybe even an answer or two to the hundreds of questions that’ve been buzzing around in his pretty little head lately.

_“Stiles, I know you were the one who called this in. Everyone on the force has known you since you were three, and you think they’re not going to know what your voice sounds like?”_

_“Dad, look—”_

_“I’m not going to ask what you were doing in the middle of the woods at three in the morning and I’m not going to ask why you ran, because I already know the answer to both of those questions. I_ am  _going to ask you why you’re here right now and not letting us do our jobs.”_ The sheriff’s unmistakably irritated at the fact that his son is following him around the border of yellow crime scene tape with a whole fountain of information just pouring uncontrollably from his mouth, stuttering about research and creatures of interest.

The sheriff stops walking. _“Look, son. I know you ran because you were scared, but you have to promise me you’re not going to do something as stupid as go hunting for fairytales in the forest after the town curfew! What the hell were you thinking? You_ weren’t  _thinking, is what it was! What if this ended up being you, huh? I put this damn curfew in place for a reason, to keep this town safe and you’re the last person I should have to be enforcing it to.”_ He ducks under the tape.  _“Go back to the station. I’ll tell Parrish to interrogate you like any other witness. You can look at the reports when they’re done, but I’m certainly not letting you into this crime scene. You may be doing the FBI a favor, but I’m still your father.”_

And Derek listens to Stiles go.

_“Sheriff,”_ greets the medical examiner, _“it’s the same modus operandi as the last three. The cause of death is hemorrhaging, four deep slashes across the throat and the poor kid bled out. His name is Brett Talbot, seventeen.”_ He squints up at Sheriff Stilinski and throws a gloved hand over his eyes to shade them from the morning light. _“You got any idea what’s going on yet?”_

_“Stiles is working on it. The FBI is supposed to send him an update today with full access to all of their resources, so we can figure out what this thing is and, more importantly, how to stop it.”_

Derek sits down behind the window and all of a sudden, everything is starting to make sense—the case file, the interrogation, the other Derek at the bakery the other night— because Stiles is getting involved in something that he can’t handle. Derek knows Stiles is going to keep coming after him for answers even though he doesn’t have any to give, and the last thing he needs is to be tailed again by the fucking feds.

Then again, how sure is he that he doesn’t have answers? This is the second time since the murders started that he’s been in the woods for something, and the wolf inside of him has enough sense to not wake him up apparently because he doesn’t remember anything, not even a nightmare of what it could’ve been. Derek isn’t so sure he even wants to know what he’s been up to, why he wakes up so unrested every morning covered in leaves or mud or now, in the shell of his old life with a fucking body in the front yard.

He can’t be doing this, can he? Surely, he’d know if he was murdering people and he’d have to have a reason to be. It’s just like his mother used to say to him; he’s a predator, but he doesn’t have to be a killer. To be completely honest though, the power that comes with being an alpha is difficult to control, and sometimes, Derek’s even afraid of himself. But that isn’t standard practice, right? They don’t go out in the middle of the night murdering everyone, do they? Derek doesn’t think so, at least he doesn’t think he’s the type of power hungry personality that does anyways.

He stops thinking and sets his jaw, trying to figure a way out of the house and away from the crime scene without being spotted. This kid Brett was a beta, unknown to Derek, most likely a part of one of the more popular packs in town led by Satomi Ito. A certain sweet scent coming from his blood tells Derek he was born a wolf, and he knows that when you’re born a wolf, there’s a sizeable chance you’ll evolve and be able to assume a full wolf form. If the other victims were born wolves, Derek knows _exactly_ what kind of power hungry personality is murdering innocents and _exactly_ why he’s doing it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is absolutely inspiration from Supernatural in this story because if Teen Wolf isn't putting out new seasons anymore, what other show can you turn to with weird creatures, cool mythology, and hot guys that doesn't seem to be ending any time soon?
> 
> Also, I'm an art major and I get bored, so I made business cards to go along with the chapters for fun.
> 
> Catch me on Tumblr @ dylanssourwolf / casanddean


	3. The Lion and the Lamb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s not going to wait to kill this thing, even though the one thing he has on his side is time. He knows he won’t be able to do it alone, albeit he’s one of the only people that can’t have anything usurped from him, besides his life, anyway. He’s surprised Derek let him off so easy, and it could’ve been that weird demeanor shift between them at the loft, but he still isn’t even quite sure what caused that. One minute he was talking to Derek and the next was some thick, comfortable silence studying Derek’s face like he always does, but Derek wasn’t glaring or angry, and Stiles just had to resist the urge to kiss him. Well, Stiles always has to resist the urge to kiss him, except, in that moment, it felt like Derek would’ve let him.
> 
> But pushing people away is all Derek knows how to do because it’s how he keeps people alive. And that’s why he lets Stiles go.

 

      

 

 

 

 

 

“I one hundred percent didn’t see anything, Parrish,” Stiles groans, leaning forward to rest his face on the cool metal table, “I just saw him lying there and choking and I panicked, okay? I’ve seen a lot of dead people, but I don’t think I’d ever seen one dy _ing_. Until last night.”

Parrish lets out a sigh, “It’s hard, I get it. I was the same way when I first started my tour in Afghanistan. It gets easier though, when you’re in law enforcement.”

Stiles just nods against the table because he knows the deputy is right. But it doesn’t _feel_ right to him, knowing that he’s going into a field that desensitizes you to the loss of life, as if it isn’t a precious thing to have taken from you. “I was so afraid, Parrish,” he whispers, “I tried to save him, stop the bleeding, y’know? But—” Stiles takes a deep breath. “There was no way I could’ve saved him, was there?”

“No, Stiles,” he replies, and Stiles lifts his head and leans back in the chair, nodding slowly in understanding. “You did everything you could, and it was all the right things.”

They sit in silence for a moment before Stiles quietly murmurs, “Can I go now?”

“Yeah.” Stiles scrapes the chair across the floor and stands, moving out the door when Parrish’s voice makes him turn. “Stiles, take care of yourself. Get some sleep. Give yourself a break.”

“There’s no rest for the wicked and no rest for the weary,” the younger replies, “I just need to figure out which one I am.”

 

Stiles spends the better part of the day holed up in the public library—of course his father told Scott about the night before and Scott insisted that he not be working—surrounded by books and books of folklore. He’s eternally grateful for the community they have in Beacon Hills, because so many people donate their old books to the library, and that’s what makes his research and his life that much easier. There’s a large carpet in the back of the library with a world map printed on it, right between the periodicals and the mythology sections, and it’s Stiles’s favorite place to spend time. He’s pulled about twenty books and stacked them in their respective regions so that when he finds something suspicious in the FBI database, he can crosscheck it with the dusty stacks around him. Copies of everything in the case file are pinned to a bulletin board behind the desk he’s sitting at and connected with red lengths of yarn, and Stiles even has things that _weren’t_ in the case file: articles, newspaper clippings, topographical maps. He knows that almost everyone in this town knows him, knows who he is as a person, and isn’t at all going to be fazed by the fact that the son of the sheriff is probably sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. He did it all through high school, and as far as they know, he’s doing it again. What better way to prevent being compromised than hiding in plain sight?

This FBI sent over access to their database and Stiles has been sifting through all of the suspicious incidents reported in the region around Beacon Hills, and there’s surprisingly a lot. He’d had a whole discussion with Scott’s dad before he left for Beacon Hills about unsavory cases that haven’t exactly been solved, and Agent McCall reluctantly gave in and promised Stiles that he’d talk to his superiors about having someone look into those. There are few people who actually believe in the supernatural outside of Beacon Hills—literally everyone in the town accepts that creatures other than humans exist and are harmless for the most part—but the fact that the federal government _also_ knows that supernatural creatures exist blows Stiles’s hyperactive little mind. He so desperately wants to help them start a supernatural unit specifically for the extramundane and unexplainable, considering that’s been his specialty for over the past four years, and he’s hopeful that solving this case is going to look _really_ good for him.

“Isn’t this illegal?” A voice comes from behind him, gentle and out of character.

Stiles exhales sharply and doesn’t look up from his screen, but calmly minimizes the database tab. “Stalking me is _also_ illegal. You know my dad’s the sheriff, right? I can tell him to arrest you.”

“Fine, I’ll leave.”

“Stay,” tumbles from Stiles’s lips before he can stop himself, and to his surprise, Derek pulls up a chair. He hasn’t shaved, and Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever seen Derek’s eyes look so weary before. He even smells different, spicy and earthy, like the smoke from a bonfire, and now Stiles doesn’t know if this is real Derek or fake Derek. “Put your car keys on the table.”

Derek obliges, fishing the fob out of his jacket pocket and putting it on the table. “I’m real.”

“That’s what fake Derek would say. You’re not biting my head off either, so that’s two whole red flags waving right in my face. You wanna raise another?”

“His name was Brett Talbot.”

Stiles slams his MacBook shut and narrows his eyes because _ding ding_ , red flag number three. “Okay, Derek, game over. What the hell do you want?” Derek’s just staring at him with lackluster jade eyes, expressionless.

“Get off my ass,” Derek snaps, “I know what you’re doing here, Stiles. I’ll give you information you need to close the case, but you let me handle it, and you stop shoving your nose into my business.”

Stiles’s brain immediately goes into a panic. What does Derek mean, he _knows_ what he’s doing here? He’s been so good about keeping a low profile, sticking to the script, not drawing attention to himself…well, maybe not _that_ one. “So, you’ve lowered one red flag because you’re being a dick again, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just doing the research my dad doesn’t have time to do.”

“I didn't even need to hear the blip in your heartbeat to know you’re lying. You agree to my terms, or the FBI doesn’t close this case.”

 _Shit, shit shit._ Nearly a month out and he fucking blows it. “Why should I trust you?”

Derek’s mouth turns downward into the glower he wears so well. “Go ahead, shine a light in my eyes, see if they turn silver.”

“Fine,” Stiles retorts, shining his phone’s flashlight right into Derek’s beautiful eyes and seeing nothing but his pupils expand and contract, “but you tell no one why I’m here.”

Derek nods and settles into his seat with a neutral expression, almost pleasant, as if he didn’t lose his temper a moment ago and as if he didn’t plan on losing it again. His hand reaches for the case file hidden underneath Stiles’s laptop and he yanks it out to sift through it. “You need to tell them to run toxicology reports. Every single victim was a born beta and they bled out, only because they couldn’t heal themselves.” Derek points at a book on the floor that Stiles has sitting in the North American continent and Stiles picks it up, fingers brushing at the scorched spot on the leather binding with _T. Hale_ burnished in the spine. “I donated the family books after the house combusted, I didn’t think I’d need them anymore.” Derek’s hands take the horticulture book and he furrows his brow pointedly before his fingers flick through the folio, trying to ignore the trained pages that flip open by themselves before he swivels the book upside down and pushes it toward Stiles. “Letharia vulpina is the poison you’re looking for, specifically the vulpinic acid. It’s a lichen fungus that’s exceedingly rare, and it’s been used to poison and kill wolves for centuries. He’s most likely using a weak oil or essence of it because if it were something stronger, it would kill him as well, but he just needs it to incapacitate his victims so that they bleed out without healing.”

Stiles honestly can’t be mad at Derek at this point because the SAT words like _vulpinic_ and _incapacitate_ that are tumbling out of the model’s mouth are giving Stiles serious fantasies of just laying him across the library desk and fucking him right there with nearly all of their clothes on. But he digresses, skimming the open book Derek’s pushed toward him. “So, a werewolf is killing them?”

“More or less,” Derek replies, “his name is Theo. He’s a chimera.

“That wasn’t even on my list,” Stiles whispers, looking up at Derek and waiting for him to continue.

“He’s a type of werewolf, like a science experiment, made in a lab, not born, not bitten. He’s hellbent on killing other creatures so he can absorb their power and become stronger himself. I can’t tell you what kind of creatures he’s usurped or even what kind of fucked up mutt he is himself, I just know he came to me looking for an alpha, and I told him I couldn’t help him. I didn’t want a pack then, so I didn’t have one, still don’t, and he tried to promise me an obscene amount of power to get me to make one.”

Stiles reaches down and picks up another book, off of the North American continent, and skims through it. “Why is he killing born betas?”

“There’s a higher probability that they’ll have the power to evolve,” Derek says, “and bitten wolves don’t necessarily get that. If the trait runs in your family, you’re more likely to eventually achieve a higher form, usually—”

“A big black dog.” Stiles pops his head up to look at Derek with inquisitive whiskey eyes. “Just like you. You’re the wolf that’s been running around the woods, _you’re_ the one they’ve been trying to catch and that’s why you want me off your ass. For all I know, _you’re_ the one killing people and you’ve been making all this shit up and using your insanely beautiful face to try and fucking de-rail my investigation and—”

“Do you _want_ me to be fucking angry again?” Derek barks, earning angry shushing from the librarian shelving books behind him. “Look, I don’t get irritated unless someone pisses me off, and accusing me of murder is _pissing me off._ I’m giving you answers you’d never have found so the least you can do is fucking listen to me when I’m being _enjoyable_.”

Stiles shuts up, and he isn’t sure if it’s the anger that’s done it, but this is definitely the real Derek. He’s arguably too exhausted to be any more than acrimonious, but Stiles has a feeling if he pushes Derek too much, then he’s going to push Stiles up against his ceremonial case yarn bulletin board and kill him. He also doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he’d straight up told Derek in that angry rant that he had a beautiful face, considering Derek doesn’t seem to have registered that Stiles even said it at all.

Derek definitely noticed. His ears are hot, and his face is red, and he can tell Stiles is freaking out from the pounding of his heart and the panicked smell he’s giving off. He’s been doing his best to ignore the superfluity of emotions that have been radiating off of Stiles since Derek showed up, and it’s starting to stress him out knowing that if Stiles weren’t human, he’d probably be able to smell the same scents rolling off of Derek. But no, Derek refuses to get attached to a boy that’s just going to leave him here with the crazies in this godforsaken Bermuda triangle of a town. He’s not going to get on his knees for Stiles just to have him up and leave back to DC, when Derek’s nearly thirty and his wolf is yearning for something long term. Though he couldn’t deny that the sound of Stiles calling him beautiful eased the longing in his chest, just a little bit.

Something else Stiles said lingers in his brain, about the wolf running through the woods where the bodies were found. He _knows_ he was the one, because the wolf inside has gone silent, but _why?_ Why isn’t the wolf letting him know where he’s been, what he’s done? He’s woken up with someone else’s blood on his hands and he still can’t remember what’s happened unless—

“Hey Derek, what do you know about shapeshifters?”

“That’s it,” he murmurs at Stiles, who’s searching Derek’s face expectantly, “it all makes sense.” Stiles doesn’t ask, just patiently waits until Derek’s ready to purge the story on his lips, because he’s got a glimmer of terror his eye that Stiles had hoped to never see. “He just wants me, Stiles.”

 

——

 

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, Stiles, you’re stressing me out.” Deputy Parrish is trying to make sense of the stream of consciousness pouring from Stiles and he can’t seem to get the boy to stop.

“We’re looking for Theo Raeken, a werewolf-shapeshifter chimera. He’s currently taken the form of Derek Hale, which explains the shedding skin we examined in the morgue, and the four victims we have are all born werewolves. He’s been killing supernatural creatures and absorbing their power, and now he’s going after Derek.”

Parrish still looks confused and Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. He sometimes forgets that while his brain runs a mile a minute, his mouth doesn’t, and most of the time the words that do spew out aren’t in the form of coherent sentences. “Let me get this straight,” Parrish inquires, “this kid is _absorbing_ other creatures’ abilities?”

Stiles nods. “That dog you’ve been chasing is Derek, the _real_ Derek. He just doesn’t remember it because the wolf won’t let him.” He reaches into the manila case file and pulls out some Xerox copies of book pages from the library. “It says here that when a shifter assumes the form of a person, it’s important to keep that person alive. The shifter obtains not only appearance, but thoughts and memories as well. Right now, the only difference between Derek and Theo is that Derek can shift into a full-fledged wolf and Theo can’t, so the wolf isn’t letting Derek remember so Theo can’t be one step ahead of him.”

“So, how do we catch him?” Stiles knows at this point that it’s the only question Parrish can formulate and think to ask because he doesn’t even know what he doesn’t know. “Is there like some sort of special _thing_ we need?”

Stiles sighs and puffs his cheeks out a bit because he’s honestly not quite sure how to tell Parrish, but— “You can’t fight him.”

“What?”

“He has these sort of claws—er, _talons_ —and they’re from a harpy eagle, but they’re scientifically enhanced probably by whoever made him a chimera and th—”

“Stiles, what do you mean I _can’t_ fight him?” Parrish interrupts, starting to get impatient at the boy dancing around the answer to his question.

Stiles grimaces, licking and biting at his lips while his eyes dart around the station. Nervous habit. “The talons are what he’s using to expropriate power from the creatures he’s killing. You can’t go after him. If he—one slash with the—you’ll be dead if you fight him. Well, dead _again._ ” Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever seen Parrish look so defeated. “And he’ll be part hellhound. So…” Stiles also gets him to _swear_ not to tell his father. He knows he has to do this alone, no matter what Derek said about staying out of it.

 

 

Derek’s phone starts ringing immediately after he sets foot in the loft, and once he sees Stiles’s name blinking on the screen, he answers after two rings. “Stiles.”

 _"Derek, how’d you know…?”_ The line goes silent for a moment while Stiles ponders. _“The business card. Got it. Anyway, are you busy? I have a couple more questions.”_

He doesn’t try to hide the deep breath he takes. The last thing he wants to do is let this intoxicating boy into his home—his own fucking space that he and _he alone_ resides in—just so he can get his stupid cinnamony scent all over it. He wants to be alone to sleep before his death sentence because  _Jesus,_ after reading through the case file and putting Theo’s puzzle together, Derek’s actually terrified of what’s coming. He also hasn’t necessarily been getting the greatest amount of sleep since the wolf part of him has been out trying to find Theo and save these kids, or so he assumes. Before his brain can tell Stiles that he’s busy, his mouth says, “No, I’m not busy. Maybe we can—”

 _"Awesome, I’m almost at your loft so I’ll be there in a few.”_ And the line goes dead.

Derek takes another deep breath and listens to the jeep clattering a couple miles down the road while he spends the next ten or so minutes tidying up the loft, i.e. throwing a shirt in the laundry and pulling the comforter up to the pillows on his bed. He walks up the winding staircase and pulls a book from the bookshelf near the kitchen and brings it back to the table downstairs, letting the sun illuminate the leather binding as he walks over to the heavy steel door and slides it open, only to find Stiles about to knock.

“H-Hey,” the boy breathes out, “you, uh, heard me?”

Derek nods.

“Did Roscoe give me away?”

He shakes his head. “Your heartbeat. You hesitated before you decided to whether or not to knock.” He steps aside to let Stiles move past him into the loft, the fresh aroma of rain wafting into a trail behind him and making Derek dizzy.

“Aren’t you rich? You could’ve at least hired an interior decorator or something when you bought the whole fucking building,” Stiles says, standing in the middle of the loft and just gazing around the nearly empty space.

Derek rolls his eyes and retaliates, “Aren’t you FBI? You could’ve at least been subtler with discussing details of a case in a town full of people who can hear you whisper from across the room.” He hears Stiles mumble something along the lines of _“fucking rude”_ under his breath as he walks up the spiral staircase and definitely finds a purple box with a red velvet cupcake inside sitting on the kitchen counter. He also definitely finds the note he left Derek on that box fastened to the refrigerator with a magnet right next to the business card he gave him with the phone number. He didn’t even notice Derek quietly ascend the stairs after him until he’s behind him asking, “I know you gave me _your_ number, but I didn’t give you mine.”

Stiles flails his arms and leans against the granite countertop in an attempt to recover from being embarrassingly startled. “I, uh, found your business card. It was taped to the hanger I took my clothes home on. I just kind of assumed you wouldn’t mind?” Derek doesn’t have the energy to be irritated, so he just nods, and tries hard to not show how mortified he is that he kept the _fucking_ cupcake note. Stiles turns to looks at Derek and starts to ask questions. “So, how do—”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t want Theo to know.” Derek points over the bannister at the table downstairs. “I pulled a book that should answer whatever questions you have.” He tries not to think about any questions Stiles might ask in fear that Theo is listening.

Stiles smiles. “I really appreciate it.” He glances back at the note on the fridge and smiles again, to himself, and follows Derek down the stairs in the pleasant drifting fragrance of his musky aftershave.

“Please take care of this,” Derek says in earnest, leaning on stiff arms over the decrepit table. Stiles picks up journal, bound in soft, black leather with yellowed pages and a tie wrapped around the width holding it shut, his long, svelte fingers brushing over the pages’ edges. “It’s a bestiary. My mom compiled it.”

“You’ve encountered a shifter before?”

“Our family’s been around for hundreds of years, Stiles. They’ve encountered more than just one.” He looks up from the table and find Stiles leaning on the table as well, the book off to the side, searching Derek’s face with striking honey eyes.

“How old _are_ you?” Stiles asks curiously. “It didn’t say on your business card.”

Derek actually cracks a tired smile. “Twenty-nine.”

Stiles pretends to not look disappointed as he studies Derek’s smooth skin, and when he meets those gorgeous jade orbs, they’re not angry or annoyed, but clement and fatigued. He looks back and forth between Derek’s eyes and doesn’t realize how lost in them he’s gotten, until Derek blinks, and Stiles’s gaze moves to Derek’s buxom lips encompassed by the dark stubble he’s letting grow out. Something unspoken changes in the air between them and Derek’s just watching Stiles examine his face, his eyes slowly dragging over Derek’s skin like his tongue dragging over his bottom lip. Derek can feel a familiar pull in his chest of the wolf encouraging him to lean forward and capture Stiles’s ample lips with his own, and he doesn’t want to get hooked, but Stiles is so _intoxicating._

“Stiles—”

“Derek, you have to let me kill him.” Stiles’s abrupt tone makes Derek freeze, sending anxious chills down his spine. He doesn’t move, he just listens to Stiles’s strong, steady heartbeat. “He’s powerful and he wants to absorb you into his body for everything you have, Derek. I can’t let you do this.”

“Stiles, I—”

“Listen to me, okay? He’s stronger than you. He’s always two steps ahead. He’ll kill you without hesitation and you won’t even see it. You _have_ to let me do this.”

Stiles’s heart is pounding, but not out of fear. It echoes like a drum in Derek’s ears, and he knows that the boy isn’t going to change his mind. There’s no point in arguing, he’s too exhausted anyway, especially because he knows Stiles is right. Theo’s slaying any creature he can get his hands on, and Derek isn’t in any condition to fight. “Okay, Stiles. Just—wait a couple days and I’ll figure out a way to help. You can’t do it alone.”

 

——

           

           

“Okay, Stiles, you can do this,” he says to himself in the mirror. “This is going to close the case and you can go back to Washington and talk to the board about that sick supernatural investigation unit you want to set up.” He’s not going to wait to kill this thing, even though the one thing he has on his side is time. He _knows_ he won’t be able to do it alone, albeit he’s one of the only people that can’t have anything usurped from him, besides his life, anyway. He’s surprised Derek let him off so easy, and it could’ve been that weird demeanor shift between them at the loft, but he still isn’t even quite sure what caused that. One minute he was talking to Derek and the next was some thick, comfortable silence studying Derek’s face like he always does, but Derek wasn’t glaring or angry, and Stiles just had to resist the urge to kiss him. Well, Stiles _always_ had to resist the urge to kiss him, except, in that moment, it felt like Derek would’ve let him.

And that’s how he knows he has to do this, alone, carefully, and quietly. He told Derek he was going to wait a few days, but he’s a fucking liar, because he’s going tonight. He can’t have Derek showing up unexpectedly and then getting slaughtered, because if Theo gets the power of an alpha _and_ the ability to fully shift, Stiles has no legitimate chance against him. Right now, he’s sitting at about a thirty percent chance of winning, he doesn’t want that to turn into negative nine thousand percent.

Stiles waits until the evening, sifting through the scribbles in the bestiary that Derek loaned him. He smiles the whole time because, _Jesus_ , the thing has to be at least two centuries old. He can tell by the handwriting when it changes from one person to the next, and some of the last few pages in the book—detailing the story of Parrish and his possession by Cerberus and the peculiarity of Kate Argent’s transformation into a werejaguar—are in a beautiful cursive script that Stiles can only assume belongs to Derek. There’s a list of names on a loose sheet that falls out, also in Derek’s handwriting, with notes on the case, leading Stiles to believe that Derek had done some sleuthing and thought organization of his own.

 

 

   

 

If there was anything Stiles could pinpoint, it was that the weaknesses of this creature were only the overlap of both a werewolf and a shifter, and that their means to an end was absolutely going to be a fucking shitshow. He debates going to the station and stealing a cattle prod from the evidence locker when there was that whole big Argent weapons confiscation, but he settles for his silver chain-wrapped baseball bat, silver-plated brass knuckles, and a stun gun that doubles as a flashlight that Allison gave him for his birthday a few years back. He really isn’t sure how well it’s going to work, but it’s worth a shot at incapacitation, and then maybe imprisonment? He can always just unwrap the chain from the bat and wrap it around Theo’s neck. Maybe drag him behind the jeep until his head just pops off on its own.

Stiles peeks out the window in search of the patrol car and sees none, the absence beckoning him outside. It’s nearly midnight, way past curfew, and Stiles is praying that it’s his lucky night, that his father stays busy and holed up at the station. He grabs the stun gun and the brass knuckles from their place inside a box in his sock drawer and throws on a black FBI hoodie over his t-shirt. It’s from the headquarters and it still looks campy, but it could be worse. It could say ‘Female Body Inspector’.

He runs to the bathroom to splash some water of his face before he heads out the door to the jeep. _You can do this. You need to protect your friends._ He definitely knows he’s doing this for Derek, but he won’t tell himself that, not yet. When the jeep rumbles alive, he quickly backs out of the driveway and speeds down the street to the preserve.

His jeep rattles to a halt in front of a thin metal gate with a burnished birch wood sign swinging in the breeze that reads _Beacon Hills Preserve: No Entry After Dark._ Stiles ignores it, yet again. He knows he shouldn’t be here, not because he found a dying beta here less than twenty-four hours ago, or because it’s been a crime scene nearly all day, but because he always has a plan and for once in his life, he doesn’t. He just picks his weapons of defense up out of the back of his car and flips on the flashlight end of the stun gun and hopes the batteries don’t die.

Stiles treks through the forest quietly, trying not to think about the previous night, trying not to listen to the crickets and the frogs and the rustling of the trees in the wind. He’s debating going around the manor rather than to it, but before he realizes he’s been lost in his head, he’s in the center of the clearing, minus the dead body. He grips the wooden bat tightly and is about to go into the shell of a home when the door creaks open and a familiar voice calls into the air.

“Stiles?” It’s Derek. The fake one. “What are you doing here?”

 _Act natural_. Stiles lowers the bat slightly and knows better than to try and confront this _thing._ “I, uh, couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d go for a walk and I guess I lost track of time.” Fake Derek’s just in black jeans as he approaches Stiles with a small smile and the boy lowers his bat completely, albeit he’s the farthest he can be from comfortable in fake Derek’s presence.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he replies, looking up at the misty sky, “I think it’s because it’s almost a full moon. The wolf in me is getting restless.”

“Why aren’t you at the loft?” Stiles blurts before he can stop himself. Fake Derek’s eyes snap to him and slightly narrow, and the abruptness of the interaction sends a sinister chill down his spine.

The older just smiles a little and doesn’t miss a beat. “This house anchors me, believe it or not. It’s anchored me since I was a child,” Fake Derek’s calm and Stiles is struggling to be equally as calm when he asks, “Why don’t you come inside? It’s cold out, I can see the goosebumps on your neck.”

Every single cell in his body is screaming nononono _no_ , so he tries to formulate an excuse to _getthefuckout_ , he’s angry, he’s cold, he’s fucking _terrified_ and nothing comes out of his mouth when he opens it, so he does the next best thing he can think of. He turns, and he runs.

 

Derek’s body jolts awake this time when he gets the drive toward the woods. He can’t remember what he was dreaming about, but he’s sweating, and his tossing has managed to pull the fitted sheet off of one corner of his mattress. He sits up and there’s an unfamiliar stinging in his abdomen and his animalistic counterpart is quiet in his chest, listening with him, trying meticulously to identify the reason for his awakening.

And he hears it.

A scream so raw that hearing it burns his throat.

The wolf is no longer quiet, and it’s no longer keeping him asleep. It’s savagely clawing and gouging inside of him and he can feel his bones starting to crack and shift and move and it _hurts_ so badly that Derek is howling, red eyed, through the transformation. He can feel the saliva rabidly dripping from his canines and the breeze blowing from the open window through his sable fur. Another scream beckons him out of the loft and down the street, past the sheriff station, past a blue jeep, and right into the preserve.

 

Stiles’s eyes flicker to the chipped baseball bat thrown to the bottom of the dilapidated stairs, abandoned near his obliterated stun gun. His head is  _throbbing,_ and he doesn’t know where fake Derek is, but all he can do is assume that the swift kick he’d landed to the right side of his head at least stunned him. He’s aimlessly wracking his brain for the information he knows that he _knows_ on how to kill this shifter. He’s fumbling around in his jacket pocket for his silver-plated brass knuckles before Theo comes back to slit his throat. _“Jesus Christ,_ ” he whispers, unable to work his quaking fingers.

There’s snarling coming from outside and Stiles manages to loop his fingers through the brass knuckles and run down the stairs to pick up his bat. He darts out the front door and an enormous black wolf is lunging at the creature in the clearing in front of the house. Stiles is first spotted by Theo, i.e. fake Derek, whose sights are set on the boy with a bloodthirsty look in his silvery eyes. He makes a swift move toward the house and dodges Stiles’s first punch, raking his claws across the boy’s abdomen to effectively shred Stiles’s jacket and t-shirt. He’s blindly swinging the bat and this wolf rushes forward to drag the shifter back to the ground by the ankle, ripping a chunk of flesh from his leg in the process. Stiles is momentarily paralyzed from the warm blood soaking the ribbons of material hanging off of his chest, but he feels nothing as his brain tells him to fight this monster. Theo’s shifted into Derek, complete with blue glowing claws, fangs, and a bizarre absence of eyebrows, but instead of bright crimson eyes, they’re a cold silver. He slashes across the eyes of the wolf attempting to rip its throat out and kicks it backward, and the animal hits the ground with a sickening _thump._

Stiles is numb with adrenaline and dodges the creature as it lashes out at him, and swings, bashing him in the ribs on his right side and burning the flesh over the broken bone. His cry of pain morphs into a barbaric growl, “Come here, _Stiles_. I thought you weren’t afraid of me.” He lurches forward, and Stiles leaps out of the way, but he scrambles to get his balance back once he realizes the wolf behind the shifter is out of its daze. The wolf howls and the shifter glances away, letting Stiles land an uppercut right to the jaw with his brass knuckles. Fake Derek stumbles backward into the arc of the wolf that’s sprung up, and it sinks its canines right into the side of the creature’s neck, silvery eyes flaring as he’s slung into one of the support beams on the porch of the house. Stiles shoots over to the house and swings the bat, landing a blow to the back of the shifter’s skull as he tries to get up, and it crunches loudly and sends the shifter back onto the ground. Stiles watches in disbelief as the bones start to crack and the monster begins to heal itself with a throaty chuckle.

“Try again,” it taunts, knocking Stiles off of his feet with a rapid kick to the stomach. His breath leaves him as he falls backward into the porch stairs and he _can’t breathe._ The shifter looms over him and wraps a hand around Stiles’s neck and he can feel himself getting lightheaded, both from the adrenaline wearing off and the lack of oxygen to his brain.

 _This is it,_ he thinks, hands uselessly pawing at the talons crushing his trachea and pressing him into the house that’s splintering with the force of his body being pushed into it. And then the shifter’s gone. His vision goes white around the edges as he sucks in gulps of air, his heartbeat deafening in his ears. He blinks away the haze in his eyes and catches the wolf’s silhouette in the moonlight morph until it’s human again, and it’s Derek, picking the shifter out of the leaves where he’d ripped him away from Stiles.

“You don’t get to fucking touch him,” Derek snarls, slamming the limp creature onto the ground. It reaches up to claw at Derek’s eyes again and the alpha plunges his fist into the left side of the shifter’s chest and tears his heart out. His head promptly turns to Stiles, who’s splayed in front of the house gasping and bleeding profusely, still clutching that baseball bat.

Derek’s face wrinkles with concern and his soft green eyes dart all over Stiles’s injuries, shocked that he could even fight with the condition he’s in. “Stiles, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he whispers, eyelids fluttering at all of the pain washing over his body, “we—leave.” But he can’t get up because his legs don’t want to work, and he’s shaking and he’s sweating and he’s gasping because he can’t breathe again, “I’m hav—panic—Der—”

And Derek finally lets the wolf inside guide him and he roughly kisses Stiles right there on the splintering porch, at 1:04 am, in the middle of the woods. Stiles stops breathing because he’s absolutely and irrevocably _breathless,_ and he kisses Derek back as forcefully as his feeble body will let him with what little strength he has left. His pain is ebbing away to something more bearable before Derek pulls back and lets his eyes bolt around Stiles’s face, scanning his expression, assessing his condition. “You can’t go home.”

“You can’t take me to the hospital.” He _won’t_ let his cover be blown. “Don’t let me die out here.”

“I won’t,” Derek promises, lifting Stiles up and running him all the way to the jeep to safely drive him to the animal clinic.

 

——

 

“What else do you need? I can—”

“Derek, I need you to sit down,” Deaton says calmly, carefully cutting the rest of Stiles’s shirt open from where he’s lying unconscious and restrained on the table. “I can heal him, and if you don’t sit down, I’m only going to be able to heal _him_.”

Derek doesn’t sit, he paces, hands running through his hair and smearing blood all over his face, circling the steel examination table. He doesn’t care that he’s completely nude and caked with blood and dirt, he doesn’t care that there’s a slow, searing pain that’s leading a numbness throughout his body, and he doesn’t care that he doesn’t have the alpha strength to regenerate his eyes. “Please, I can help, let me help.”

Deaton’s rummaging through the office pulling out herbs: fennel, plantain, thyme, nettle, mayweed. “Derek. Sit down. The poison is spreading quickly and the more you pace, the harder it’ll be for me to heal you, so if—”

“I don’t give a fuck about me, I give a fuck about him!” Derek’s getting himself worked up and his heart is throbbing faster in his chest, the numbness spreading faster, the rage and terror filling his gut, causing what’s left of his eyes to flicker and the wolf in his chest to snarl. “So, tell me what you need.”

“There should be a jar of honey in the cabinet behind you,” Deaton resigns, adding mugwort, crab-apple, Lamb’s cress, and betony to the table. Derek thrusts forward a jar of honey and a large mortar and pessle, his hand feeling around for Stiles’s cheek to comfort the boy and himself. His knees give out and he splays out on the floor, eyes lazily rolling around. He can’t see much, just shadows, but he can smell the herbs being crushed and hear the grinding of the stone. “Hang in there, Derek. You have to keep listening to my voice.”

Derek tries, so hard, but his lids are getting heavy and Stiles is getting help and that’s all that matters, until Deaton slathers the herb paste over Stiles’s body and the boy jolts up screaming. The only thing preventing him from digging the paste out of his chest are the restraints holding his limbs down onto the table. Derek’s wolf lurches his body upward and he’s clutching Stiles’s hand and taking all the pain he can, despite the numbness in his legs and the broken ribs attempting to mend themselves. Derek isn’t sure he should be even pulling Stiles’s pain with his condition, but Stiles is just _wailing,_ and Derek needs to make it stop before he screams his throat raw.

And then the searing pain starts on him, Deaton plastering the herbs over Derek’s body and his face. “I’m sorry, Derek. I know this hurts.” But it doesn’t just hurt, it throbs, and it stings, and it _burns_ , and Derek’s howling on the floor, the only thing keeping him anchored is the grip that Stiles is clutching his hand in. His eyes are healing, and his ribs are healing, and the paste is bubbling where it’s drawing out the poison, but he’s still seething through his teeth because it’s making the wolf feel better.

Stiles is free of his restraints, courtesy of Deaton, and he hasn’t once let go of Derek. It’s miraculous, watching him writhe and all signs of injury just vanish into the smooth tanned expanse that Stiles has come to fantasize over. Derek swallows thickly and becomes exceedingly aware of his nudity, feebly trying to cover himself before hanging his head over his heaving chest in exhaustion.

Deaton offers a small smile to the two and tosses a pair of sweatpants at Derek, who stands and puts them on. “You’re very lucky, Derek,” the vet says, “if he’d gotten your throat instead of your eyes, I’m not sure you’d still be an alpha, or even alive for that matter. And you,” he turns to Stiles, whose fingers are playing with the blood-soaked fabric ribbons that used to be his FBI sweatshirt, “I hope you’ve solved your case. You’ve done some great work in improving your fighting skills since the last time I’ve seen you, Stiles. It appears you can now outsmart your enemies while holding your own, and I think your father would be extremely proud of you.”

Stiles smiles and moves from his place on the table. “Thank you. Now, uh, could you do me a favor and _not_ mention any of this to him? I _really_ don’t need it getting back to my superiors that I helped execute the ‘serial killer’ they’ve been trying to capture.”

“Sure thing,” Deaton assures, “now take Derek home and make sure he rests.”

 

 

——

 

 

Stiles is weak, but not as weak as Derek is. He assumes it’s because the wolf lichen is more poisonous to wolves than people and Derek hasn’t been sleeping well on top of that, plus he just took away _every ounce_ of Stiles’s pain while re _fucking_ generating his goddamn eyeballs. So, evidently, Stiles has no problems walking out of the clinic, he’s just exhausted and a little achy. He also has to nearly carry Derek out, supporting almost all two hundred pounds of muscle, and help him in and out of the jeep. He’s just lucky Derek’s loft has an elevator.

Once they reach the penthouse, Stiles sides the door open and walks Derek to his bed, kicking aside the fragments of cloth that used to be Derek’s pajamas. Stiles sits him down and Derek just presses his palms into the mattress on either side of his body and doesn’t bother to look up at the boy standing in front of him.

“Thank you,” Stiles starts, uncomfortably, “for saving me.” He’s not sure if he should mention the defensive heart tearing or the fact that they’d kissed to stop a panic attack. “For everything.”

Derek doesn’t look up. He’s just slowly breathing, blood and dirt still caked on his skin. His brain is whirring, he doesn’t know what to do. Everything that just happened was his wolf, acting on instinct, but his human? Petrified. Paralyzed. Visceral. Fucking _fuming._ “You’re a fucking asshole,” is what comes out before he can stop it. He’s always had anger issues, but they’ve never been so emotionally driven by pure inoculation before. “You were going to wait.”

Stiles is taken aback. Derek has every right to be angry, he just didn’t think that after everything that’s happened, he’d be ready to pick a fight. “Derek, I—”

“You don’t get to fucking explain!” Derek lifts his head and his jade eyes are swirling with rage. The wolf has retreated in his chest, unneeded, and Derek doesn’t feel the feral yearning to shift. It’s pure human fury that’s fueling this outburst. “You didn’t have any damn clue what the hell you were getting into!”

“I did all of my research, I was prepared! It’s literally my fucking _job_ , Derek!”

“It’s not your job to get yourself killed,” the older snaps, finding some strength to pull himself to his feet. “I _knew_ I shouldn’t have come to you to help, I fucking _knew it._ I should’ve just taken care of it myself and recruited the Argents, then we wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

Stiles is hyperaware of how Derek is in his face, huffing, angry. “I had it under control!”

“But you _didn’t_! He could’ve shifted into you at any time and then knows what your every move is, were you prepared for _that_? What if he’d shifted into your father? You think you’d still be able to chop his fucking head off?” Derek’s gritting his teeth and his heart is pounding at how Stiles’s jaw keeps clenching and his brow is furrowed. “You had no fucking clue what you were getting into.”

“Don’t you dare act so self-righteous, we wouldn’t have even been in this shitstorm if it weren’t for you!” Stiles bites back. “You don’t have a pack because no one wants to have some uptight, egomaniacal, antagonistic _sociopath_ to rely on. Maybe you’d have some friends if you didn’t rip everyone’s throat out when they ask you how you fucking day was.” He’s seething, and his mind isn’t registering that Derek is only angry because he wanted to protect him, he just doesn’t understand why Derek’s attacking him for saving the town.

Derek puts a hand on Stiles’s chest and knocks him back a little into a wooden support beam. “You don’t know _anything_ about me. You have no right to tell me who you think I am.” His eyes flicker between Stiles’s and his heart is steady and normal underneath Derek’s palm. He’s not afraid because he can tell the wolf is gone. “You would’ve died if I didn’t come to protect you.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” the boy retorts, shoving Derek’s hand off of him. “The only reason you did is because you were dragged into the case and you wanted to clear your name, so you could go back to festering alone in your fucking loft after a hard day of sucking the energy out of all the people that actually care about you.”

That one kind of hurt a little, and it tugs at Derek’s heartstrings, because he knows Stiles is right. “I never should’ve walked into your bakery.”

“What?”

“I never should have walked into your bakery.”

Stiles watches Derek fall to a seat on the bed. “Why?”

The jade eyes he’s come to love so much just stare up at him, angry and vicious, and Derek spits, “Because then I never would’ve fucking _met_ you.”

Stiles’s anger melts away into a sting in his nose, letting him know that tears could begin to fall at any moment. The rage in his heart turns to a painful ache that ebbs in his chest, and he clenches his jaw and nods. “I’ll go.”

Derek watches the boy turn and doesn’t stop him as he pads out of the loft, missing the droplets that fall down Derek’s cheeks. He listens for the jeep as it starts and skids quickly out of the lot and away, before he lays back onto his bed and lets the tears silently flow down the sides of his face. Stiles hadn’t been wrong, Derek does push people away, but he has his reasons that Stiles doesn’t know. Everyone he’s been close to ends up hurt or slaughtered, _everyone._ He didn’t want a pack because he’s afraid of leading more people he cares about to their deaths, just like he did with his family, leading a hunter right to them just to have them burned alive. He cares too much, and he’d meant what he said about not going into the bakery. If he’d never met Stiles, Theo wouldn’t have had leverage on Derek, Stiles wouldn’t have gotten nearly killed.

Pushing people away is all he knows how to do because it’s how he keeps people alive. And that’s why he lets Stiles go.

 

 

——

 

 

The next week or two Derek recovers, and once his body stops hurting, his heart starts. The wolf inside his chest is docile but yearning ever since the smell of Stiles finally disappeared from his loft. When he goes to work, there’s only one day of shooting left for him, and everyone takes notice of how compliant he is, but no one says anything, except Lydia.

“I’ve never seen Stiles so upset before,” she reveals, putting moisturizer on Derek’s face. “Frankly, I’ve never seen you so upset before either.”

“I’m not upset,” Derek fires back, but even to him it’s a feeble attempt at intimidating.

She works the serum into his skin and Derek doesn’t dare open his eyes. “He’s not the best at expressing himself, so I’m betting you both said some things you regret and don’t know how to apologize.” Derek doesn’t say anything because she’s right. Lydia grabs color corrector and starts on the dark circles under Derek’s eyes. “Theo is dead, yet you still aren’t sleeping.”

“I am,” he whispers. She seems to know everything, and Derek isn’t sure if Stiles told her or if it’s just perks of being a banshee.

“You’re not. You’re angry you let him go.”

He pushes her hand away from where it’s blending concealer and breathes to prevent the tears again. The wolf lets out a forlorn howl that vibrates his throat a little before he sighs and looks at Lydia. “Everyone I love gets hurt. I had no choice.”

“He can take it, Derek,” she caresses his cheek, “He’s been through hell and back, and I know if you talk to him—”

“He doesn’t want me. No one wants to be near an antagonistic sociopath, he made that _very_ clear.”

She puffs powder onto his face and runs her hands through his hair to pull Derek into a hug. “Like I said, he’s not the best at emotions. He’s an idiot. But so are you.” She lets him go. “You need to find him after the shoot, and you need to tell him. Everything.”

 

 

The shoot went by quickly, some on-location, Derek didn’t protest, did exactly as Chris asked. He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t brooding, he was ambivalent. He was sure the photos are going to be talked about once the magazine comes out, because he’s never been melancholy for as long as he’s been in the industry. Chris had recruited him years after the fire, as collateral for Kate using him to murder his family, and to try and make things right for him to live on his own, orphaned. He did like it, and he was always known for his glowering photos, for being hateful and dominant. But this issue, with Stiles? The editorial goes from the brooding grimace, to a submissive centerfold, to the woeful disconsolate end.

He packs his dressing room up and takes everything that’s his, checking the closet and the vanity drawers. He comes upon a business card, from over two months ago, with purple stripes and a saying Derek is a little too familiar with. He runs his thumb over _Never Trust A Skinny Baker_ and takes a deep breath. _Still open,_ he thinks, the clock reading 7:34 pm. He grips the card in his hand and walks to the parking lot to jump into the Camaro. 

Derek’s so nervous on the drive over, between being unable to formulate an apology and the beast inside of him crying out, he isn’t sure he’s ever been this lost before. He usually knows exactly what to do, but no one has ever wormed their way into his life like Stiles has or tried so gently and carefully to break down the wall he’s so meticulously built to keep everyone out. He doesn’t regret for a moment meeting Stiles.

He shoves the bakery doors open and Scott is behind the register, rewriting the menu for the next day, and Derek can hear Liam in the kitchen, humming to himself while he’s pulling cupcakes out of the oven.

“Welcome to—oh,” Scott glares, “it’s you.”

“Where’s Stiles?” Derek whispers, heart racing in his chest. He’s sweating through his Henley because he can’t catch a fresh scent.

Scott turns back to the specials board. “Gone.”

“What do you mean, _gone_?”

“He’s been back in Washington since last week,” the beta says, nonchalant. “Why—”

“God _damn_ it!” Derek lets a howl rip from his chest and it’s not angry, it’s miserable. Scott’s demeanor changes and he leaps over the counter to steady Derek.

“Hey,” he says softly, attempting to ease the alpha’s claws out of his own hair as to not tear it out, “it’s okay.” Scott pulls Derek to one of the barstools at the counter and listens to the nervousness of the older’s heartbeat.

Derek rests his head in his hands. “I fucked up. I had him and I just—I really fucked it up big time.”

Liam pokes his head out from the kitchen with a small cardboard box in his flour-dusted hands. He’s smelling waves of anguish and melancholia emanate from the alpha, so he just puts the cube on the counter and nudges it forward with two fingers. “This has been in the fridge for the past week. I assume it’s for you.”

“He’s a hopeless romantic,” Scott intervenes, “and he’d been waiting for you to walk through that door up until he left. I didn’t think you actually would.”

“I talked to Lydia,” Derek sighs, opening the cube to reveal one red velvet cupcake. “I guess I’m too late.” Derek isn’t sure where his job is going to take him, if he and Stiles will ever again be in the same place at the same time.

Liam chimes in. “He talks about you a lot, y’know. It’s never too late.”

Derek doesn’t know why he listens to the advice of a high schooler.

 

 

——

 

 

Stiles straightens his tie and sits at his desk, lolling his head around while he waits for another case file to come through. He’s been put on vet duty for the past two weeks since he’s been back because he’s always been great at digging for information until his fingers fall off, and apparently, a big case is coming through regarding Gerard Argent and whether or not his arms dealing company is doing everything legally. Stiles is just glad Chris and Allison got out of that.

He’s been bored since he’s been back in the office, case closed. Toxicology reports showed exactly as Derek suspected, wolf lichen, lethal dose for any animal and for any human with a slashed throat. The sheriff’s department found the fake Derek body of Theo with the heart ripped out and they wrote it off as an animal attack that attacked the animal, but nearly everyone knows that something else got to him, but no one knows who. Except Stiles. And now that the case is solved, and the murders have stopped, he really expects a call from his dad with an update or an interrogation or somethingregarding the case. He also expects a phone call from Scott and Liam on how they’re doing running the bakery.

He _doesn’t_ expect the mail guy to toss a brand new, hot-off-the-press magazine with the title _Varúlfur_ at the top onto his desk with a wink. He also doesn’t expect to be right on the fucking cover of a werewolf magazine, forcefully bearing the throat of one of the most famous alphas out there. He begins to flip through the pages, fingers trembling with anticipation at every page turn, and his phone buzzes in his pocket, effectively scaring the shit out of him so he jumps, and the magazine gets tossed onto the floor in the middle of the fucking walkway.

He can’t fish his phone out of his pocket because his fingers keep nervously spazzing, and when he finally answers it, he just hears Scott chuckling on the other end of the phone. “ _You know I never thought you were photogenic until I saw these, Stiles.”_

“Jesus Scott, you couldn’t text? I’m busy,” he whispers harshly.

“ _No, you’re not,”_ Scott answers, “ _my dad said he’s in the middle of putting a file together for you because you work too fast and aren’t occupied at the moment.”_ He laughs again on the other end of the line. “ _So, about these photos. Have you looked at the centerfold yet?”_

Stiles glances around his desk for the magazine that was just in his hands. “Shit, where—I just _had_ it. I—” Standing in front of him, holding out the magazine, is the most beautiful pair of jade eyes he’s ever seen.

“I think you dropped this.”

“Derek,” Stiles breathes, eyes darting around the office because he can feel the fucking busybodies that are rubbernecking right in the middle of the walkway. “What are y—why—I—”

Derek walks around to the side of Stiles’s cubicle and leans against the desk, still offering the magazine. “I wrote the article inside. Sort of the weird running monologue in my head from the past few months. It’s right after the centerfold.”

So, Stiles curiously opens the magazine, and lets the centerfold fall out of the pages, and it’s an image of Derek, on hands and knees on the white muslin, shifted, with an angry red bite mark on the side of his neck. Stiles is behind him, looming, eyeing the camera, arms still up and positioned from where Derek just fell out of them.

“ _Are you looking at it? Did Derek show you?”_ Stiles doesn’t have to see Scott to hear how giddy he is. “ _Can I hang up now?”_

“Scott, you mean you _knew_ about this?” Stiles sputters into the phone.

Scott rustles around on the other end. “ _Yeah, the whole pack helped._ _Have fun._ ” Dial tone.

“Whole pack?” Stiles swivels his chair back to Derek, who’s signing an autograph for one of the girls in tech support and waits until he has the alpha’s full and undivided attention. “What pack?”

Derek nudges Stiles’s backpack and puts the magazine inside, pointing at the water bottle and laptop on Stiles’s desk. “You gonna pack up?”

“Derek, I’m literally at fucking—”

“Scott’s dad has been stalling you all day on purpose. He’s in on it, too. He knew I was coming in today and taking you. You _technically_ have the day off.”

Stiles draws a hand down the side of his face in confusion. “Wait, how did you get—”

“Visitor badge.”

“Don’t you have to—”

“I’m at my old apartment in New York. My next job is there.”

“Why are—”

Derek reaches across the desk and starts packing up Stiles’s things. “Do you _really_ want to make a scene here? People are staring.”

Sure enough, the office _was_ staring, right at Stiles’s cube, probably because the whole time he’s been trying to piece together the situation, his arms have been flailing around his body and his voice has gone from a low whisper to a loud, aggressive one. “Yeah, fine, let’s go.”

The Camaro is waiting outside of the J. Edgar Hoover building once Stiles scans his badge for the turnstile to let them out. He tosses his stuff in the back seat and climbs into the car, waiting patiently for Derek to start driving. “They’re housing us at George Washington University, in the Aston on New Hampshire. I’m assuming you want to talk?”

Derek doesn’t answer, just hangs a right on Pennsylvania and heads up through the city, Stiles gazes out the window at the passing parks and marble columns as he and Derek sit in a comfortable silence for the fifteen-minute car ride to the Aston. Once they arrive, Stiles leads them to an elevator that rides all the way to the top floor, unlocks the door, and lets Derek into his apartment.

“Derek, why are you here?” Stiles asks, loosening his tie and turning to where Derek’s taken up residence on the loveseat. He’s absolutely pissed that everyone in his life seemingly turned against him, for _Derek,_ so he could just show up out of the blue, and no matter how much he’s been telling himself that he should just run back to Derek and eat his humble pie, he doesn’t even want to look at the alpha. “Like why are you _really_ here?”

“I’ve been driving all week to come to DC,” Derek admits, taking a deep breath. He doesn’t even know how he’s able to form a string of coherent words. “I really fucked it, didn’t I?” _So much for an apology,_ he thinks, internally punching the wolf in his chest that’s whining at the aroma of Stiles surrounding his body.

Stiles disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water. “I’m still mad at you,” is all that comes out before he clenches his draw and takes a swig of water. “How could you just—” Stiles slams the glass down on the counter and runs a hand through his hair because the anger he’s had built up is just going to pour out right now.

“I’m sorry, Stiles, for everything.” Derek stands, calm, listening to Stiles’s heart race and the mixture of rage and despair and infatuation just rolling off of him. He walks up to Stiles and put a firm hand on his shoulder, trying not to be nervous, because his body is already too warm underneath the white tee and leather jacket in the heated apartment. “I pushed you away because I thought it would keep you safe. I fucked myself once already and got my family killed, and I’ve always thought that if I push people away, I won’t screw it up again. And I made it worse. You were right, I spent so much time sucking the energy out of the people that care about me that I never once imagined how much it could hurt them.”

Stiles looks up at Derek with those searing honey eyes and Derek nearly loses his breath just staring into them, and the younger jabs a long finger right in the center of Derek’s chest. “You _had_ me, Derek. Right around your _fucking_ finger, and I _trusted_ you. I risked my goddamn _life_ for you, and you didn’t push me away, you ripped my _fucking_ heart out, and I still had the decency to wait, to apologize because I thought it was  _my_ fault! And you never came back, you—” he thrust his finger into Derek’s chest again, “you wanted me gone, remember? Like you’d never even met me.”

“I didn’t mean it when I said it, _God_ , my whole body wanted you to stay. The wolf inside of me has been yearning since you walked out of my loft and I thought I needed to let you go, but I shouldn’t have let you go. It’s clawing at me right now, trying to tell me what to do. I just never let it.”

“Derek, you—”

And Derek lets it. He lets the animal inside of him grab Stiles’s wrist and pull the finger out of his chest before his other hand grabs the back of Stiles’s head and hauls him in for a rough kiss. It’s fueled by regret and contrition and he just backs Stiles up into the refrigerator when he feels the boy’s lips moving against his own. There are teeth and tongues and long, spidery fingers weaving up Derek’s back, and they grab a fistful of the alpha’s hair and yank his spit-slicked lips away from their place on Stiles’s own.

“You son of a bitch,” Stiles pants, eyes grazing over Derek’s heaving chest. He’s beautiful, obedient like this, not resisting, _submissive._ “I’m still so fucking infuriated at you, for lying, for leaving.”

“Show me.” Derek’s done hiding himself under a shroud of guilt and pain. He’s done faking that he doesn’t care, he’s done trying to convince himself that he needs to have everything under control all the time, and now, he’s finally ready to let himself give in. “Show me how angry you are.”

Stiles is breathing raggedly, mouth hanging open slightly as he lets his tongue dart out to wet his swollen lips. He’s enjoying this too much, the look of Derek’s neck bared in front of him covered in rough stubble, bobbing every time Derek swallows thickly. He clenches his jaw and lets Derek’s head go, eyes raking over the older’s brawny frame, the tight white tee clinging to his abdomen, the dark gray jeans hugging his thighs and doing nothing to hide the bulge that’s firmly straining against the zipper. Stiles takes a step forward and reaches to push the leather jacket over Derek’s shoulders until gravity pulls it to the ground.

“You’re one of the most insufferable people I’ve ever met,” he mumbles, gazing between the jade orbs hungrily eyeing his lithe body. Derek’s hands reach up and grab Stiles’s tie to tug him forward into another kiss, fingers feeling and fumbling over the buttons on his white dress shirt. Stiles grabs both of Derek’s hands with his own and brings them up over his body, still obscenely sliding their lips together. “No,” he mutters against Derek’s lips, “you don’t get to fucking touch me.”

“Okay,” Derek whispers back, “I’ll obey.”

“You fucking better.” Stiles’s brain is going a mile a minute because Derek is so pliable underneath his hands and the last time he felt this sort of  _spark_ between the two of them was in Derek’s loft after he vowed to save Derek’s life. Oh, _and_ when he thanked Derek for saving his, and then Derek fucked him over and hung him out to dry.

Stiles bites Derek’s bottom lip and the alpha gasps, hands jerking forward where they’re restrained above his head. The animal instinct is driving him, the primal lust he has for Stiles’s willowy fingers and lean, muscular body, and the way his brown eyes drag over Derek never fail to send a wracking shiver up his spine. He’s been craving this boy for so long, and his mind is reeling with the way he’s licking and nipping at Derek’s jaw, he doesn’t even notice the groan that slips past his lips. “Fuck,” he hisses, eyes fluttering shut at the hot breath ghosting over his jugular, and he bites back another moan.

“I wanna hear you,” Stiles commands, knocking Derek backward into the counter as he loosens his tie completely and tosses it to the floor. “You don’t know how fucking much I need to hear you. You don’t know how hard it gets me listening to you growl and gasp and, _Jesus,_ I could just bend you over this counter and fuck the shit out of you right now.” His fingers whisk over the buttons on his dress shirt and he’s shrugging out of it, reaching for and roughly tugging the tee off of blissed-out Derek.

“Do it then,” Derek fucking _purrs_ as he raises his arms for the shirt to escape them, “please, Stiles, just fuck me.” The wolf in his chest is sated at the request because it’s all Derek’s wanted since day one, and now that he’s realized it, the wolf no longer needs to guide him. “I want you to—”

“Shut up, Derek.” Stiles grinds his teeth at the feeling of Derek’s hand palming at the front of his slacks and he clicks his tongue, gripping the older’s wrist and wrenching it away. “What did I say?”

“No touc— _fuck,_ Stiles.” Derek would be lying if he said he _hasn’t_ though about those perfectly svelte fingers wrapped around his cock, but he never imagined that Stiles snaking a hand into his waistband would make him physically weak. His body is melting at the touch and he’s hanging onto the counter to support himself. As quickly as it arrived, it left, the same hand sliding upward to feel through the trail leading up Derek’s broad chest. Stiles’s other hand pops the button on Derek’s jeans and shoves them and his boxer briefs to his knees before it finds a meaty place to dig into on his hip.

Stiles has a ravenous look in his eye when his right hand brushes over a nipple and Derek moans, loud and deep, whispering for more. “No, we do this my way. Turn.” And Stiles helps Derek flip so his stomach is heaving against the edge of the counter. “So beautiful, laid out like this for me. I can’t wait for you to crumble.”

“Please,” Derek gasps.

The younger stops and there’s Derek, bent over the counter like a fucking pornstar, scapular twitching underneath that tanned skin and the tattoo molding as his head falls to rest on the countertop. “ _Christ_.” His perfect ass is trembling with his knees in anticipation and the sight has Stiles furiously scrambling at his own belt to free the hard-on he’s been hiding since the car ride. He doesn’t bother taking his slacks off, just slides them to his knees before he’s shoving three of his fingers past Derek’s abused lips. “Get them nice and wet.”

Derek moans, swirling his tongue between the digits and around the fingertips until Stiles reluctantly withdraws them, teasing one down the center of Derek’s rippling back until it’s separating Derek’s cheeks and tracing the small pucker that’s clenching in wait. He moves his left hand from its place on Derek’s shoulder to the front of the alpha’s thigh, simultaneously pushing a single digit into his tight heat and wrapping five others around Derek’s leaking cock.

The way Derek chokes on a moan is enough encouragement for Stiles, and he slides a second finger past the ring of muscle, scissoring Derek open. His other arm is resting on the alpha’s hip, unmoving, firmly grasped around his slicked shaft, the older getting off by rocking forward into Stiles’s grip and backward onto a third finger. Stiles is mesmerized by Derek’s tense form just _unraveling_ at his touch and it’s driving him insane and he’s curling his fingers and Derek slurs a string of obscenities and relieves his quivering elbows by resting his forearms on the granite. Stiles withdraws his fingers and Derek protests with a whine, until the hand around his cock flattens and slides up over Derek’s surging abdomen, pulling him close against Stiles’s smooth body.

“Y’know, Derek, I think I know why you actually pushed me away. See, I thought you could overpower me,” Stiles utters, hot breath dancing over Derek’s ear. “Then I realized there’s something _about_ me, and you _can’t_ overpower me. And when I saw that magazine cover…you, vulnerable like that, no effort to make it stop because it drives you fucking _wild,_ doesn’t it?” Stiles moves his hand farther up Derek’s furry chest and the hitching of the alpha’s breathing is giving Stiles all the information he needs. “ _Doesn’t_ it?”

“Yes,” the older croaks, “yes, _God,_ Stiles, fucking _yes._ ” Derek’s body is on fire despite the fact that the granite is freezing on his skin, Stiles’s fingers leaving trails like knives on his flesh. He won’t ever admit that the boy is absolutely right, Stiles makes him weak, impotent, susceptible with just a scent, a touch, a _breath_. It sent the animal inside of him into a frenzy when he shut it out—he’s actually gotten pretty good at keeping the wolf at bay in these situations—and only once he’d finally had enough sense to listen to that animal instinct, did the wolf disappear and let him be satisfied by everything _Stiles_.

Stiles brushes his bangs up out of his face and spreads his knees as far as his dress pants allow, liberally spitting into his palm and coating it on his stiff cock, where it’s pressed up against the dark trail underneath his navel. He groans at the touch and resists the urge to keep jerking himself off when Derek is so draped and willing in front of him, stretched and whining at the need to release.

Derek wants to plead so badly because he feels so empty and there’s a toe-curling tightness beginning to form in his abdomen, and then Stiles’s hand moves even farther up his chest again and oh _God_ , Derek can’t _breathe_. He gasps, and his heart is pounding in his head, and Stiles’s fingers are squeezing lightly under his jaw, wrapped around the rough stubble on his neck. “Stiles _,_ ” he stutters, edging his hips backward, “ _please_.” It’s all he can manage before that hand is squeezing a little firmer, and Stiles guides the head of his dick past Derek’s tight hole, pressing forward and eliciting a choked moan from Derek’s lips. He’s trying to roll his hips back to take more because, _fuck,_ Stiles seems to fill him just right and his vision is edging white from the waves of pleasure running straight to his cock.

“Shit, you’re so fucking tight, made for me.” Stiles presses his hips flush against Derek’s ass, and he’s leaning forward, trapping the alpha's body against the granite before he braces himself with a hand beside Derek’s forearm and starts slowly thrusting into him. His left hand lets up a little around the alpha’s throat but at the same time, he uses it as leverage and tugs Derek’s head backward, so he can get his lips all over the scruffy neck he loves so much. It smells like musk and the woods and cedar and Stiles has been staring at it ever since Chris told him to bite it and all he’s wanted to do is bite it again. And now that he’s pissed off at Derek, he has a reason to bite it again. And again, and again, and _again._

Derek’s groaning and wiggling under Stiles, panting obscenities between “faster” and “harder” and Stiles wastes no time complying with Derek’s requests, sinking his teeth into the side of Derek’s neck and tightening his fingers around it. “Yes, more,” whispers Derek, arching his back and spreading his legs as far as the jeans around his knees will let him. Stiles is licking at his neck and biting and Derek’s breathing is labored because Stiles is _choking_ him, and he should’ve fucking done this sooner, both the choking thing and having Stiles’s dick up his ass because that’s pretty great, too.

Stiles knows he doesn’t have to be gentle, so he’s being the furthest from it, relentlessly pounding into Derek and shoving his body into the counter with each thrust. Derek’s mouth is hanging open, eyes squeezed shut, knees shaking from pleasure and the sheer force of Stiles driving into him. He can hear his heart racing and matching the rhythm the boy has set, and every bite Stiles sinks into his neck, he’s whining and moaning and begging for more. Derek can feel the heat in his stomach burning, and he’s so fucking _close_ , but there’s no air left in his lungs to say anything. His arms are barely holding him up, he can’t reach down for his own cock that’s dripping and begging to be touched, so he just starts pushing his ass back onto Stiles and drinks up the groans he gets in return.

“So good for me, Derek,” Stiles mouths against Derek’s neck, licking at the bruise he’s in the middle of making, “I’m so close and you’re going to fucking take it, aren’t you?” He bites down again and moves the hand he’s using to brace himself from its spot next to Derek’s arm and grabs the alpha’s hand, interlaces their fingers. “Come on, Derek, succumb to it, let go.”

And he does, shooting all over his abs and the granite countertop, stars floating around his vision and the only sound he can make is a whimper. His heart pumps harder and it’s deafening in his ears, heavy under Stiles’s fingers. His whole body is putty in the younger boy’s grasp and he’s crumbling, and then there’s Stiles flooding into him with one last thrust, holding him up against the counter as his hips stutter and his hand falls slack at Derek’s throat.

Stiles doesn’t move, just pants against the back of Derek’s neck, peppering kisses there until the alpha just lets his head rest on the counter. “Are you still angry?”

“Mmm, I don’t know, I might be,” Stiles answers, pulling out of Derek and haphazardly tugging his pants back up in some sort of semblance. He dashes down the hall and grabs a towel from the bathroom to come back to Derek, unmoved, chest still heaving, cum leaking from the alpha’s abused hole. “I’m less angry seeing you like this, though.”

Derek turns his head and weakly growls at Stiles, letting his eyes go red for a moment before he gasps at the boy gently cleaning the backs of Derek’s thighs. Derek lets Stiles turn his body and he dabs at the mess left across his abdomen, those beautiful brown eyes staring right into Derek’s jade ones, and then he’s tucking him back into his boxer briefs and tugging Derek’s jeans back up his legs. “You were right, you know. About me…pushing you away. I—”

“I get it, you were afraid. You’ve never known what it feels like to find someone so…”

“Right,” Derek finishes, “I’ve never found someone that satisfies the wolf. Until you. And I don’t want to make the same mistake again by letting you get away.”

Stiles drops the towel and pulls Derek into a kiss, this time gentle and passionate, and the sensation sends a wave of goosebumps across the alpha’s bare skin. Oh yeah, that’s something he never wants to end.

Stiles smiles softly. “You can stay, if you’d like.” He grabs the towel and runs it to his bedroom laundry bin and kicks off his shoes and slacks to tug on a pair of sweats. He returns to Derek only to find him in front of the open refrigerator, holding a red velvet cupcake.

“Can I?”

“Be my guest. I only made a batch because I missed you. And then I got angry in the process, so I was going to take them to a baseball field and hit a few of them across the field to get it out of my system.” Stiles plops onto the couch and offers a small smirk at Derek, who’s taken up the empty space beside the younger and nuzzled his way under one of the boy’s arms. “But then you showed up, and I got most of my anger out fucking you into the counter.”

Derek inhales a red velvet crumb and nearly chokes. He raises an eyebrow and waits for Stiles to reach for the glass of water on the coffee table before he replies, “Maybe you can get the rest of it out later and fuck me in bed.”

Stiles actually _does_ choke via water inhalation and he’s sputtering for a few minutes while Derek’s so proud of himself, eating that cupcake. “You’re an asshole.”

Derek leans up for a kiss. “You love me.”

Stiles leans down to seal their lips. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, it's done!! I hope you enjoyed it! There's teeny little Supernatural nuances in there if you can catch them, because I'm obsessed, but whatever. I also hope you enjoyed the magazine cover art I made, I really enjoyed that one.
> 
> Catch me on Tumblr: dylanssourwolf / casanddean
> 
> Check out my first sterek one shot called 'Arch Your Back (How to Keep You Shirt Tucked in)' based on real events from my life! 
> 
> Also feel free to drop a message if you have any requests! I'm a huge fan of bottom Derek so lemme know if you need a prompt fulfilled :)


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